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07 August 2011 @ 11:35 pm
FIC: DWTS, Hines/Kym, NC-17, "Heat Index"  
Title: "Heat Index"
Author: Little Red
Rating: NC-17
Category: dwts, rpf, Hines/Kym, pwp
Summary: The forecast in Pittsburgh is for record high temperatures with a chance of shower sex.
Author's Note: By request/demand of Love Nicole. Set after the "Signing With the Stars" event in Charlotte. And yes, I think I basically just wrote a spoiler warning for reality.

***

It's hot.

You've spent the day almost entirely in air conditioned spaces – the mall, airports, planes and automobiles – but the soaking heat outside still manages to seep through every open crack.

Just the walk from the curb to the front door of Hines' townhouse is enough to make you feel like you've been steamed. The sun is almost down, and it's still hot.. You mentally check your geography – you are north of Charlotte, where you started your day – but you have a feeling that high noon tomorrow in Pittsburgh will be just as bad.

Inside is cooler – barely – and stuffy with having been sealed up for weeks, probably since you were last here, last with him. Seeing him this morning after weeks apart felt so welcome, so necessary, and then you barely even got to hug hello before you were dragged in different directions. You'd planned to have breakfast, but his flight was late and you were too jet-lagged to get up anyway after only four hours of sleep in a strange hotel.

You've seen him all day, separated by other people, by Andy and event organizers and fans (mostly his – a different crowd than dancing fans, than the people you attract at casinos and fashion events, and you're endlessly surprised at how they've embraced you). This is your first moment alone with him, back here in this house, and you feel like it's been months.

"Hungry?" he asks you, ever the Southern host. "There's nothing fresh, but frozen?"

You shake your head. "I'm good." You both grabbed a bite in the Charlotte airport before you boarded the plane. Besides, it's too hot to eat, let alone think of turning on the oven to cook something frozen.

He carries your bags to his bedroom. He pauses just a second to look back at you, like maybe you'd rather sleep in the guest room, maybe you've changed your mind since the last time you talked on the phone (yesterday, when you checked into your Charlotte hotel at two a.m. local time), since this afternoon when you managed a hand-squeeze and a smile because a kiss would have been too risky in a mall full of cell phones.

You're a little relieved, actually, that you're not the only one having trouble switching back and forth. You've always been public and private, but moving between apart and together is still new. During the season, at least you knew where you stood in public. You were his partner, his coach, his guide to the wild world of dancing and Hollywood and the show you have lived and breathed for what feels like forever. You were sure of that.

In private, all you knew was that you wanted to touch him, that he was the first partner you never needed space from, that you felt something for him that was like rolling down a steep hill with nothing to slow you down.

And now here you are, somewhere mid-landslide, sweating, smelling like two different airports, feeling like you smell like the hundreds of people you met today. You're boiling in your own skin. It's hot in California, hot in Sydney, but not like this.

It's only when the AC finally kicks on with a whoosh of noise that you realize how silent you've been. You're exhausted but not tired, that weird jet-lagged sensation that you should be used to after the way you've spent your summer – jetting between venues and casinos and events and signing your name a hundred thousand times, ninety thousand of those on something black and gold. Your signing was cut short today, and Andy and Hines both tried to apologize to you, but they didn't need to. Your job is always to stand behind your celebrity partner, to let them shine. It's only different this time because Hines kept pulling you forward to stand beside him.

You say the first thing you think of to break the silence. "You're going to train in this?"

Touchy subject, and he winces. "Hopefully." He's completely confident with other people; you like that he lets you see something else. "It's not so bad. You're from farther South than this."

"California's a dry heat."

He smirks. "I meant Australia. I know, it's another hemisphere."

It catches you a little off-guard. You're not sure when you started feeling like you're from anywhere but Sydney.

"You sure you're not hungry?"

"I'm just hot," you complain, frustrated that he's basically making small talk after you haven't seen him in weeks, more frustrated that you can't think of anything better to say after making small talk with strangers all day long.

He's smiling, like the heat doesn't even bother him and like he thinks you're being cute.

"What?" You get as far as opening your rollaway, then just leave it on the floor.

"I like seeing you cranky."

This you did not expect.

He laughs, points a finger toward the front door. "They don't get to see that."

It's sweet, really sweet, and it makes your chest hurt a little with how much you've missed him, how you've laid in bed every night wondering how much he's missing you, wondering if you're falling too fast or not fast enough or if you should even let yourself fall at all. If, more terrifyingly, you're already there, too deep to climb out without heartbreak.

"They don't get to see all of you either," you point out. "Though some of those ladies today looked like they'd love to take you home with them. And some of their husbands didn't look like they'd mind."

He picks a pillow off the bed and chucks it at you with the casual accuracy you'd hope for from the athlete so famous that he can pack a mall in an entirely different state (all over the country, you know, and you should stop being amazed every time you see a Terrible Towel in an unexpected place, but it still blows your mind).

"You want to go out tonight?"

The idea of stepping out into the hot soup outside makes you feel a little ill. "Will it be air conditioned?"

"We don't have to."

You've been busy all summer, but not busy enough to keep from coming up with whole reams of worries about this, and this is one of them. "I'm tired," you say, talking about tonight and in general, because you still like going out, you do, but you mostly want to find someone to stay in with you, even when it's too hot for sex, and you don't know if that will make him happy. He texts you, calls you, almost every day, every night, and it's so often from a club.

You say, "You can go, I don't mind," and you smile, but you don't really feel it and you're sure he can tell. "I'm sorry, I'm just... cranky."

"I'm sorry about the turnout-"

"It's not about that." You say it more definitively than you mean to. His eyes dart for the door, like he thinks you might be explosive and he's checking his escape routes. You sigh, try to make an excuse, like he doesn't already know you as well as he does: "I'm only like this when I'm hot."

"We can cool off," he offers, and you hear the hesitation in his voice, the tentative-sweet part of him that you think you saw the very first day mixed in with his humor and his pride and everything else, and that was the thing that made you take your first step toward him, not knowing how steep a drop it was.

You don't want to disappoint him, you don't, but you don't really feel particularly fun. "I think I just need a shower."

He shows you to the bathroom door even though you've been here before, points to the clean towels. He kisses you, just once. "Have fun."

You just stand there for a moment, listening to him rattle around with dresser drawers outside, before you turn on the water. You can feel the cool before you even step under the stream. You've left it so cold you almost yelp when it first hits you, but it feels good.

You turn the heat up by just a touch, just enough so you can stand under it without moving, and it feels like the entire day is streaming down your body, the whole trip so far. Whatever you did in L.A. yesterday before getting on a plane feels like an entirely different life.

You really like this shower, you think, the bathroom entirely done in stone. You want to come back here, to not have to wonder when you'll be here next. It's too much to think about when your skin is tingling with the icy pinpricks of water as the heat of the day rolls off you.

The stone is rough under your feet, and you slide your callused soles across the gently sloped surface, trace the drain with your toes. You can see his touch in all of the design elements, like the townhouse is in some way him. When you were with him in his Atlanta home, months ago, you didn't know him well enough to feel him in the walls, in the floor.

You regret asking him not to join you in here. You still feel a little off, but you think he might be able to bring you back to center, even though that's scary, even though it means something, means you'll be left twisting in the wind if he never invites you back here, if you drift apart. You think, if he touches you, hot hands on your back mixing with all this water, you won't be able to imagine that empty space.

Whenever he touches you, even in the beginning, even when it was just dancing and stumbling through the Cha-Cha and letting him pick you up off the floor when he knocked you down, it always felt like more. Like while his was touching you, you couldn't think of anything beyond his hands.

You call his name, wait. Nothing.

You turn the water off and go to grab a towel to cover yourself. On impulse you stop and leave the towel behind. The townhouse is quiet besides the AC struggling against the heat, so it's easy to follow the sound of his movements to the kitchen, leaving a trail of wet footprints behind you.

He has his back to you, filling a glass of water at the sink, so you stop behind him until he notices you.

When he does, he jumps about ten feet. "Jesus! Kym-" His gaze sweeps down your body and you grin. People look at you like this all the time, but not-

Not like this. Not like he does, like he's seeing something more than what's there, and it sends excited energy to your belly, like he's reaching out and caressing you with just his eyes.

"I'm cooled off," you say.

A hopeful smile turns his lips at the corners. "I didn't think you were in the mood."

"Neither did I," you admit. You're not going to explain about the bathroom floor, how you felt like part of him was there with you already. You might tell him later, because he cares about his houses, and he'd probably appreciate it. He might even know what you mean. "But I missed you."

The water glass he filled is slipping out of his hands as he continues to stare at you. You snatch it before it hits the counter. "Still thirsty?"

He gives you a wicked smile. "Leave that."

You both wrestle with his clothes on the way back to the master suite, laughing when he nearly trips and you have to catch him, push him upright. His skin is hot, the air is hot. Even his lips are hot when you kiss him.

You've missed his body. Three weeks is too long.

You pull back from the kiss to watch when the water first hits him, when he smiles with that same bliss you felt when you first stepped in here. The water pours over his shoulders, down his body, funnels between your fingers where they're spread on his chest.

He tilts his head up, opens his mouth, and you just watch, watch his throat move as he swallows, watch his muscles shift as he changes his stance. He's heavier than he was at the end of the season, bulkier, stronger, and you remember how you felt in his arms, spinning high above his head. It makes you shiver, and not at all from the cold water.

He turns his head down, smiles like he's going to say something, and you don't let him, because kissing him is more important. His arm slides around your waist, his other hand cupping the back of your head, and his body changes the pattern of water rushing over you both.

And you just kiss. It tastes clean, like water more than him, but he feels just like you remember, like nothing has changed in the weeks apart except his body (and yours – you're doing strength training too, of a different kind, rebuilding your neck where it was almost broken). He sounded different today when he talked, in his element, chatting easily about things he knows and you don't understand, but he touches you the same way.

He makes the same sounds, too, shifts his weight the same way when he's leaning deeper into the kiss. Even in the ice cold water, you feel his penis stir against your leg, and you think that's reason enough to warm up the shower – you hadn't planned it exactly, hadn't really thought farther than wanting him with you, but now you're picturing your back pushing into the wet stone wall with each thrust.

You spread your legs, reach between you to brush your fingers around the sensitive skin of his groin, and he smiles into your mouth, makes a quiet sound of pleasure that makes you remember, again, just how much you missed this. This, feeling him, the way his hands come up to cup your shoulders, the way he kisses you when you're the only two people in this entire house and you're this close to him after three weeks so far apart...

He moans, a little louder, and you realize it's turning into actual words. "You know this isn't safe."

It takes you what feels like whole minutes to process what he's saying as an objection. "I think we can handle it." You're already reaching past him, turning the water up from icy to just cool.

His mouth is at your neck, kissing gently. "I almost killed you once," he reminds you.

Some other time, you're going to have to talk to him about not bringing that up when you're like this, because guilt doesn't mix well with sex, and even if the pain is barely there now – most of the time – you still dream about the look on his face (at the time, when you were lying on the floor scared out of your mind, and also the haunted expression he wore when he told you late one night that he can't get that day out of his dreams, either).

"That was my fault," you remind him. "And you didn't. I'm fine." You move your hips against his on purpose, smile until he looks at you. "More than fine."

His hands palm your stomach, move up to your breasts, and you breathe deeply, pushing your chest up into his hands. You don't know how his hands can feel so different than anyone else's, how your nipples brushing his skin can make you feel like you've never done this before, with anyone.

He kisses your neck again, says something you don't catch, something that sounds like I thank God every day, and you feel yourself breathing faster like maybe you might cry if his touch didn't feel so good, so lucky. Your hands stroke down his body, chasing the trails of water running around the curves of his muscular back.

You pull his hips closer. He's still surprisingly hot after you've both been soaked through, especially his hands, and you close your eyes to better feel the slow circles his hands are making on your breasts, how every time a football callus rubs against your skin it's like the first time those nerves have ever been touched.

You nudge him with your pelvis and feel that smile again against your lips. "What's your hurry?"

And you realize there is none. No one's going to stop by. You have nowhere to go, nothing to prepare or choreograph or design, nothing you need to be doing except being with him, and that seems to be working.

Maybe not being his partner, not having a public reason to stand beside him isn't going to be so bad. Maybe it will be easy to pack your things, say I'm coming this weekend, watch a game with all his other fans and be the only one who gets to come home with him, to him like this. He touches you like you're the only woman in the world he wants, and you can feel yourself sliding faster, head over heels. All you can do is kiss him, melt into his hands, his body, press your back against the cool, rough stone and admit, right here, that when you're showering alone in California, when the hands touching your breasts are yours, he's the only man you ever think about.

"God," you say, because he's growing hard in your hand and you want to keep this, want to sustain this feeling of being locked in this room, blanketed from the world by a cover of water, just you and him and the way he's touching you, the way you make each other feel, how no one else, not fans or PR directors or event planners, no one else gets to have this.

Something fierce and protective is coiling inside you, nerve energy arcing from your groin and your chest and everywhere water is falling on you. You step on his feet, lift up on your toes enough to grab his lips in another kiss, wrap your arms around him and kiss him like you're the last woman who ever will.

Your back slams against the stone wall, and it's not comfortable, but it feels good, feels like exactly what you wanted. You wrapped one leg around his hips just on instinct, because you're a dancer, because you've been all over his body before, because it makes the head of his penis brush your sensitive skin and you can't get enough. Of him. Of this.

"Fuck me," you say. You always say that, whenever you remember, because the first time you did his eyes lit up in a way you had never seen, like he was laughing and charmed and more turned on than you'd ever seen him, and you remember that face in your dreams, too. Your one foot is still on his, and you feel his toes grip for the floor, and you brace yourself as well as you can.

He slides into you so slowly you feel like you're breathing him in. You're taking him in between your legs, but it's settling in your chest, right where he's got one hand over your heart, pinning you to the wall. You moan in time with his exhale, breath with him, and he says:

"Christ, Kym." Your muscles clench around him of their own volition at just his voice, and he groans and so do you.

You missed this.

You stay like this as long as you can stand it, just holding him there, your every sense feeling like it's flung open (the taste of water, feel of stone and skin and the stretch your body has been aching for, the sound of his breath in your ear and reverberating against the wall, saying your name again). Then you tighten again, squirm back closer to the stone behind you, rock your hips up to help him slide in and out.

You feel like water is slipping in and out of you just as fully, the chill of the shower and the heat of his body alternating for your attention, cool liquid sliding into your mouth when you open it to kiss him, when you separate briefly on each thrust.

This doesn't feel like fucking.

The last time you were here, in this place, you were drunk out of your mind on whatever your last two or three drinks were at the tavern he brought you to. You were feeling itchy with the month you'd already spent apart and the month that was coming, and he was strong and just as horny and you fucked until you were both exhausted and begging for mercy, sore enough to last you for the first two days of missing him. It felt good, rough, honest. Not as honest as this.

You lose his mouth, find your head tilted back to the wall, water falling on your lips as you breathe in and out on shuddering breaths, as slowly as he's moving inside of you, igniting every nerve in turn. You feel the tension in his arms against the wall on either side of you, hear it in the way he half moans out his every breathe, and you think, you feel, this is the man you love.

You have no idea how long you're like this, if you've drained the entire Pennsylvania water supply, feel like your every pulse, every rush of blood through your veins is hotter, faster than the last. You've pushed your hips as wide as you can without slipping, tilt your whole lower body away from the wall with every thrust, groan into the falling water when he fills you just so. He's kneading your breast, pinching your nipple, and he's not even touching your clit but it feels like he is, like every touch he makes anywhere on your body is mirrored by an imaginary hand.

You trail your own hand down his chest, feel his stomach muscles jump under your fingers, and you touch, touch him, touch you, spell out random patterns on both your skin. You're in no hurry. You want this, as long as he'll give it to you.

His mouth falls to your throat again, gently kissing you, and that’s when your pelvis starts pushing back against him, pulling him in as deep as you can. He changes his angle, moves a little faster, finds the rhythm you learned together, the one that's slower than it's ever been with any other man before him but that works, that makes you burn longer and brighter. He's always there when you come down, still holding you. There's no hurry.

And you're not hurrying, exactly, but you feel your belly tighten with each thrust, feel energy prickle along your nerves like water starting to boil, and you're relaxed because you know, you know it's coming, know how it will feel, know he'll carry you through it. You breathe something that isn't words or sounds or anything at all except a plea for him to keep going, to push deeper, to get as close to you as possible.

He crushes you against the wall with the weight of his body, trapping your hand between you where you were stroking your clit, and you gasp at the change in pressure, feeling closer and closer and closer as colors and patterns start to fly behind your eyes, but you need more. You say his name without thinking because you want to hear it, and you feel him lick the water from your lips, suck your tongue into his mouth as he strokes into you again, and it's his breath that does it, the rise of his chest pushing his heart closer to yours while everything is the feeling of him around you and then you start to come undone, like fire.

It's hot, blood rushing through your veins, and you feel until you can't anymore, until you aren't even aware of him or the water or the stone wall as anything separate, until it's all sensation holding you, moving in you over you behind you, and you want, want, want in waves until you have it, have him and this and you and the feeling of your whole body releasing, and you melt like the water still running down your skin.

He's moving when your senses start to clear, rhythm starting to break into shuddering quick movements inside you. Every rush of contact sends spikes of sensation all through you, and you moan because your whole body is sensitive, because even the strikes of water droplets feel like they're too much, too much, but it's him, it's Hines, and you want so desperately for him to feel what you just felt. You want to watch him lose himself in you, like you just lost yourself in him.

And you know him, know his body, know what he needs. You kiss the skin of his throat, suck, bite gently as his strokes turn jerky, and you lick up the line of his throat until he groans, pushes into you one last time, breathes something that was maybe supposed to be your name but just comes out as sound and need and pleasure, and he comes in you, and you feel his release in the weight of his body on yours.

You bring both feet to the ground again. He slides out of you, but you're not ready to separate completely yet. You wrap your arms around him, bury your face in his skin, breathe him in through the smell of water and stone.

He holds the back of your head until you look up, then brushes your hair from your face. He always does that when you're in bed together, but it feels different here, when your hair is sopping wet and so is his hand.

You reach past him to shut off the water. The comparative silence is shocking, with nothing but drips and the sound of breathing.

When you look at him, he's grinning, and you feel joy bubble in your chest. You've been smiling all day, at strangers, even at him, but this is the first time you know you're not exaggerating it.

He kisses your forehead, slides his hands down your body until they settle on your waist. His thumbs rub up and down, making tiny motions on your stomach. You want him to always be touching you. "Tired?" he asks.

You should be, but you aren't. "Pacific time."

"Want to watch a movie?"

You laugh out loud, because you do want to – not because you really care what you see, but because that feels like what you'd do if you lived in the same city, if you lived here, if you weren't going to be in a different time zone by the day after tomorrow.

You imagine it's still hot in the rest of his townhouse. "Do I have to put clothes on?"

He pinches your side. "Not on your life."

*end!*
 
 
 
(Deleted comment)
Little Red: dwts - hines/kymmylittleredgirl on August 9th, 2011 05:20 am (UTC)
I love that this is what you took from this. Because THEY REALLY ARE! And not just in my head! I can only infer the shower sex, but the cuteness is totally PROVEN.
christymarkrydenfan on August 9th, 2011 05:51 pm (UTC)
Very plausible considering she wrote this in her OK! blog(after Viennese waltz), "It was one of those songs you would want to sing along to, but although I think Hines sounds very good in the shower, he’s probably a better dancer than a singer!"

How does she have an opinion of how he sounds in the shower? I doubt there is some large shower that everyone from DWTS uses like a locker room shower.