Moonlight and Motor Oil

***Dru's POV***

Moonlight spills through the cracked window, fractured by the rusty fan blades spinning lazily overhead. It stripes the tangled sheets—threadbare cotton stained with motor oil and bayou mud—in silver and shadow. Outside, the buzz of cicadas thrums in time with the creak of the bedsprings, a primal soundtrack to the leather-and-vanilla scent clinging to Dragon’s skin.

I wake up to feeling a calloused hand resting on my bare hip. Noticing we are both a tangle of limbs, I nuzzled deeper into the valley between his pectorals, where the scent of motor oil clung stubbornly even after a shower. My lips brushed the jagged scar—a pale, raised line like a lightning bolt over his heartbeat. It tasted of salt and something metallic, a remnant of the fight with Hank.

As my lips brush another scar on his chest, and he inhales sharply, fingers tightening in my hair. I brush the tip of my nose along the stubble on his jawline as a sly smile spreads across my mouth. Shadows pooled in the hollow of his throat, and I licked into the darkness there, tasting salt and the ghost of his last cigarette. I remembered we have some unfinished business from earlier.

Fisting my hands in his shirt, I whisper, "Ding, Ding, Round 3!"

Pulling him down close enough to nip at his bottom lip, Dragon curses under his breath in Spanish, then crashes into me. The kiss was a bayou storm—untamed, all-consuming, devouring the space between ‘yours’ and ‘mine’. I was the drought-parched earth; he was the lightning strike. Our tongues clashed like two weather fronts, and when he bit my lip, I tasted copper and the promise of rain.

Flipping me onto my back, his laughter muffled against my mouth. His hands roam but linger at the hem of my shirt, asking permission. I nod, breathless.

Dragon pulls back, looking into my eyes, “Fuck, Dru—you’re still… healing.”

Giving him a determined look, fingers twisting in his shirt, “I’m not glass. But break me if you have to...." I kiss him hungrily—a reclaiming, all teeth and desperation. Dragon groans, hands gripping my hips to steady me, but he pulls back again, breath ragged.

Dragon breathes against my neck, hot and heavy, his voice wrecked, “Tell me to stop. Now, or I swear I won't—”

I arch into him, biting his earlobe,“Don’t you dare. Not this time.”

He peeled off my shirt like unwrapping sacred ground, the air cool on my bare skin. His gaze burned—not pity, not hunger, but reverence. “Dios te hizo perfecta, (God made you perfect.)” he breathed.

The chill from the loss of fabric, makes my nipples harden. I stare up at him , chewing on my lower lip in anticipation. Grinning back at me, he pins my hands above my head. He hovered, lips a breath from mine, his stubble scraping my chin like sandpaper. I arched up, but he pulled back, smirking.

“Patience, corazón,” he rasped, trailing a calloused finger down my sternum. The roughness of his hands—a mechanic’s hands, scarred and grease-stained—against my tender skin made me shiver.

He runs his tongue along the lip I was just chewing on before plunging his mouth onto mine. A kiss so deep, so passionate, I could feel every bit of emotion he poured into it. Leaving me breathless, he moves to the pulse points on my neck, taking his time sucking on them. The more I squirmed, the harder he suckled them. Pressure coiled low in my belly, a live wire sparking with every graze of his teeth.

The scars at my wrist hummed, their light a silent echo of the storm building between us.

When his fingers brushed the scar beneath my ribs—the one shaped like Louise’s favorite hairpin—I flinched. For a heartbeat, I was back in that closet, her laughter slithering under the door.

But Dragon’s lips followed, warm and sure, murmuring, “Estás aquí. Conmigo. (You’re here. With me.)” The present snapped back, sharp and sweet as a stolen mango.

Trying to gauge my reaction, he continues trailing kisses down my neck. As Dragon’s lips traced the scar on my collarbone, a memory flickered—Louise’s nails digging into the same spot, snarling *“You’re mine.”* I froze, the safehouse walls narrowing. But Dragon’s breath warmed my skin, his thumb brushing the pulse at my wrist.

“Stay with me, guerrera,” he murmured, and the past dissolved like sugar in rain.

I gasped, nails carving half-moons into his shoulders as the world narrowed—whispers, friction, the wet click of his tongue circling my nipple. My entire body feels as if he just set it on fire as the pressure in my belly gets tighter. Moisture pools between my thighs as I squirm under his caress.

His calloused hands mapped the topography of my pain—the sickle-shaped scar from Louise’s switchblade, the puckered burn from her cigarette. When his thumb grazed the newest one, a raw line still scabbed at the edges, I stiffened.

“This one’s mine,” he growled, lips following the path his fingers took, as if his kisses could rewrite the story. He continues working his way down my ribs, kissing and caressing every scar as if he could make them all go away.

His lips traced the ridged scar on my ribs—Louise’s parting gift. “This one,” he said, voice thick, “is a lie.” His tongue followed the curve, as if he could lick away the memory. “You’re not hers. You’re…” He hesitated, the unspoken *mine* hanging in the air like smoke. I arched into him, my silent answer: *Yes. But only if you’re mine too.*

He hooks a finger into the top of my panties, peppering my abdomen with kisses. Looking into my eyes, finger still not moving, he starts working his way down my thighs, as if he's waiting for permission to go further.

"If you don't take them off, I'll do it for you," I hissed.

His slow pace was pure torture but I could tell by his grin, he knew exactly what it was doing to me. He slid my underwear down slowly. Kissing every inch of bare skin as he went until he had them completely off. He throws them over his shoulder and works his way back up.

Darting his tongue in-between my folds, I almost shattered at the sensation. As I moaned and quivered, trying not to come undone just yet, his resolve snapped. His mouth closed over me, a sinner’s prayer, as I arched into his tongue—a lightning strike searing every nerve ending.

The twin countdowns on our wrists pulsed in unison, their faint glow painting silver trails across our skin.

His teeth scraped that tender, aching spot—ignition. He began to suck on it slowly at first. Then harder and harder. As soon as I felt him begin pumping a finger into my opening, I came apart. Wrapping an arm around one of my thighs, he held me in place his tongue traced a wildfire’s path as he continued to devour me like a man starved. Slowly using his finger to explore every inch, finding every weakness.

I breathed out his name in ecstasy as I burst apart at the seams. I couldn't tell where one orgasm ended and the other began. He drank me down like a sinner at communion, my body the altar he’d vowed to ruin and redeem. When he finally came up for air, I unraveled like a storm-loosened knot. I couldn't make a coherent thought.

He starts kissing and licking his way back up until he finally reaches my mouth. He nips at my jawline. Then sucks at my bottom lip. Surprising even myself, my mind raced back into action as I hooked a leg around his waist, rolling him beneath me with a growl, straddling his hips in one fluid motion.

The scars on our wrists pulsed, twin constellations mapping a path only we could follow—a countdown to freedom or oblivion. 601 days left, but tonight, time was ours to burn.

Bringing my lips inches from his, I lick his bottom lip. Daring to taste myself, I began to kiss him slowly. Exploring every inch of his mouth. His groan vibrated against my lips, a rumble of surrender.

I broke the kiss, breathless, my world reduced to the drumbeat of his heart. Our scars flared briefly, twin embers in the moonlight, as if the crossroads themselves held their breath.

Trailing my fingernails down his chest, I whisper, "My turn! I think it's time we discuss exactly what you've been hiding from me in these jeans."

Chuckling, he raises his hands in mock surrender, "Feel free to frisk me, mami. I'm not hiding nothin'."

"We'll just have to see about that," I reply as an evil grin spreads across my face, hooking one finger from each hand on his waistband.

The bayou’s heartbeat thrummed—cicadas chanting, an owl’s cry slicing the dark—as if the swamp itself bore witness. But here, the world shrank to the creak of bedsprings and the slick, steady rhythm of skin on skin.

The moonlight striped Dragon’s chest like tiger markings, his tattoos glowing faintly: saints and serpents, a history etched in ink. I mapped them with my tongue, salt and defiance on my lips. He grips the sheets, moaning. Circling around his nipples, I nip at one. His hips buck a little as he lets out another delicious moan.

"Hold tight cowboy, this ain't no rodeo," I giggled into his chest. Gripping the waistband of his jeans to steady myself, I made my way to the bullet graze on his ribs that I had patched up earlier. Looking directly at his face, I flick my tongue across it. I could tell he was straining to control himself, as he grips the sheets even tighter, groaning. Smirking, I nip it a bit as I drag my teeth across it. His hips buck even harder, rubbing the crotch of his jeans against my overly sensitive clit. I moaned into his navel, grinding harder, chasing friction.

Caressing his hands down my back, "Coqueta,” Dragon growled as I nipped his ribs, but his grin betrayed him. “You’re gonna make me crash my bike tomorrow.”

“Promises, promises,” I whispered, sucking a bruise over his heartbeat. “Maybe I want you reckless.”

Smirking, I place my lips on a spot right above the waistband I've been holding. Trailing my tongue up and down a little line of hair that disappeared into his jeans, I popped open the top button with my thumb. Running my hands around the waistband, I make it to the sides. Putting the zipper in-between my teeth, I tug it down slowly while keeping his eyes locked to mine.