It always begins with the tangle of his fingers in her hair. She would never admit it out loud but she practically lives for the moments when he holds her tightly to himself and leans in, drawing in a breath, inhaling her and the smell of her hair. He always buries his head in the crook of her neck, hiding there, and she wonders how he’s managed not to suffocate himself yet… Lindsey’s hands might start out holding the guitar but soon Stevie can feel his arms creeping around her, his fingers linking behind her back, low on her back. She can feel the indent of his wedding ring and it makes her lean in closer to him; she makes the most of moments like these now.

Then his hands move and his head lifts. He’s looking at her now and, at first, she worries that he’s going to break contact with her, that the delicious press of their bodies is going to end.

And then. And then, and then, and then, he cradles the back of her head in his large hand, gently guides her so her head is laying on his shoulder and her hands are pressed flat on his leather-clad back, stroking slowly. It’s a calming motion, really, a motion which reminds of her too much of the week after his father passed away when they would sit on their couch and she would just hold him, hold him and stroke his back with a soft touch. And soothing murmured words of shared grief.

Stevie relaxes in his embrace, closing her eyes, blocking out the fact that they are supposed to be in the middle of practicing their harmonies in his little bunker of a studio. No, they have plenty of time for this. She smiles to herself as he emits a soft little sigh and kisses the side of his neck, a brief acknowledgement that she feels the same way. Their relationship has never been secure and pleasant and predictable in the way his marriage was but there was a comfort and safety in each other’s arms that could never be replaced by any other person or piece of music.

He winds a long strand of blonde hair around his finger and Stevie can feel him smiling at her. Lindsey had always loved her hair, had spent hours just playing with it, touching it, brushing it, even braiding it for her on a few occasions. Running a hand through her locks, he uses his other to press her up more tightly against him, a firm hand on the small of her back. It doesn’t stay there for long. She squirms as he kisses her forehead, the tip of her nose, and he responds by letting his large hand drift down to her ass, cupping it as he tangles his other fingers in her hair. There are no words necessary and when he uses his hold on her hair to tilt her head back up so she faces him, she isn’t at all surprised at the look in his eyes. Desire.

She knows that look damn well, had gloried in it in her youth, been so thrilled that the gorgeous young guitarist seemed to find her attractive. Later, she’d been aware of it from across the stage, a fierce possessive desire mixed with the hurt and bitterness she knew her leaving had put there. In recent years, Stevie had learned to ignore that look - to pretend it meant something else. His blue eyes search hers now, though, and she nods slowly, yielding. Yes. It’s inevitable, really. It always is with them.

He kisses her first.

Or perhaps she kisses him first.

As Stevie groans and Lindsey’s hand slips under her blouse, the roughness of his fingertips a delicious contrast on her soft bare skin, she doesn’t really care.

"We should stop," he moans, nipping at her neck, tongue tasting her as she reaches for his belt.

"Don’t care. Don’t stop."

And he doesn’t.

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