A Breath 4/8
Chapter 4
TITLE: A Breath
AUTHOR: La Mamacita
FANDOM: TFATF
PAIRING: Dominic/OFC
RATING:Rated NC-17 for explicit sexual content.
DISCLAIMER: TFATF ain't mine - all original is
SUMMARY: Only Dom is carried over from the movie. The rest of the characters are original. It is the tale of a middle-aged woman who takes a spontaneous vacation to Puerto Vallarta in Mexico and meets a sad, lonely and gorgeous man hiding from his past (Guess who?). They connect almost instantly, and set about healing one another through love, understanding, and damn good sex.
Chapter 4
They drove back at an almost pathetic drudge, but neither noticed, the stereo silent, windows down. Leah ached from exhaustion and longed for a shower. She was sticky and sweaty but her whole body smelled of him, and every so often she could feel him again, the thick pressure of him as he rocked his hips, sinking deep inside her.
And when they got back, they fell into bed, a tangle of weary limbs, and slept.
Leah woke to the muffled bleating of her cell phone some sixteen hours later. Dominic rolled over and caught her arm as she struggled drowsily to her feet.
“I’ve got to get the phone,” she said, smiling fondly, and he groaned and released her. The phone was buried in a pile of clothes at the foot of the bed, and she wrestled it out of her poor jeans from the day before.
“Hello?”
“Mom!”
“Ben Bradley, how are you?” She laughed and caught a lump in her throat at his winsome enthusiasm.
“I’m good,” he said.
“You’re well.”
“I’m good,” he repeated, “And Dad’s good too. Is it hot there?”
“Very hot. Hot and sticky.”
“Are you miserable?” he asked.
“Of course, I’m not miserable. I’m right on the ocean.”
He laughed.
“Lucky. It’s cold and snowing, here. And miserable.”
“A white Christmas, then?”
“It’s all melting on the ground. But the lamps and trees are white, and the Park.”
“Lovely.” She smiled softly, picturing it.“I got three hundred dollars.”
Leah choked.“You WHAT?”
“I got three hundred dollars. Dad gave me two hundred and the rest is from Grandpa Samuels. Tomorrow we’ll go shopping and to lunch, and I’ve got to go, Mitchell’s here.”
“How does your father like Mitchell?”
“What?”
“How does Dad like Mitchell?” Leah repeated.
“He likes him all right. Bye, Mom.”
“Goodbye, Ben. I love you.”
“Hello, Leah.” Peter’s voice. Her stomach lurched.
“Hi, Peter.”
“Enjoying yourself?”
“Yes, of course. Things going all right there?”
“Getting along beautifully.” There was a silence, one of Peter’s dramatic pauses. He was working up to something, trying to choose the least offensive words. She was reluctantly familiar with this part of his conversation. “Listen, where might I find the number to get a babysitter?”
She let her jaw drop, only because she knew he could neither see nor hear it fall, and took her time responding.
“Beg yours?”
“A babysitter. I’d like to get some air tonight, and-“
“You see your son one week out of six months, and at week’s end you’ll be leaving for a further six months, and you’re looking to get some time away from him? I swear to God, Peter, if you’re bringing women home to my bed, I’ll-“
“Oh, please, Leah. Let’s not get crass and hysterical off the mark. Will you give me the bloody number or shall I choose one for myself?”
“The blue card,” she choked out. “In the upper left of the refrigerator.” And she hung up.
Leah let the hand holding the cell phone drop to her side, then permitted her eyes to fall upon the little black chunk of plastic. She licked her bottom lip, frowning and feeling a bit numb. She shook her head, felt the smart of an eager flood of tears burning behind her eyes, and released the little phone from her grip. It fell with a muffled thump into the pile of dirty laundry at her feet and she swallowed hard.
Dominic cleared his throat.
“Come on. Come on back to bed.”
She turned and looked at him, and shook her head, briefly, and sat down on the very end of the bed, this great stricture seizing her throat. She folded her arms over her chest and tucked her chin down so her blonde curls draped over her face as she let the wall break down and she cried. He came up, knelt behind her, and enveloped her in the massive brown security of his arms.
“He’s an asshole, Leah,” came the gravelly words against her ear. “He’s an asshole. Come on back to bed for…” He smiled. “For about ten minutes.” She rested a damp cheek against his forearm and nodded.
Dominic pulled her back onto the bed, laid her down on her belly, and straddled the backs of her thighs, supporting most of his weight on his knees. He placed one hand on either side of her spine at the small of her back, running them up slowly to her shoulders, then sliding them in toward each other, rubbing lightly at her neck, then flattening himself against her and nuzzling into her.
“Fuck him, Leah,” he said, against the flesh of her throat. “Fuck him, and all his bullshit.” He worked his hands in under her body and cupped her breasts. “Fuck everything he’s done before and everything he’ll do later. You’re here with me now.”
And he knelt between her legs and slid his hands down her body to her hips, pulling gently, smoothly upward, guiding her onto her knees. He touched her with soft, practiced hands, coaxed out of her an aching, longing pulse between her legs and a need to be full of him. He took her hand and wrapped her slender fingers around the hot girth of his cock, arcing over her again, speaking into her ear:
“When you’re ready.”
He massaged her shoulders with a seemingly ingrained gentleness as she guided him forward and into her body.
It all faded as he made love to her, and was replaced by a highly impractical trust, an illogical affection, for a man she’d met only a handful of days prior. He didn’t bang away at her, or grip her hips and impale her. His hands were otherwise occupied, one between her legs, one roaming the rest of her body with a deft sort of skill, playing on her breasts, tracing her lips, stroking her cheek, caressing her hair. He drew the reins on his climax, kept it quiet and innocuous, respecting the vulnerability of her position, and it was his obvious kindhearted compassion which drove her over, sent her trembling into the warm cloak of her own release.
When he pulled out of her, both of them collapsed as if each had been supported by the other, and she climbed up onto him and he wrapped her in those arms and she felt pure and clean and strong.
Fuck him, she thought, with fiery conviction. I’m here with you now.
There was a Beach Bash the following evening, and Leah watched Dominic drink himself into oblivion. He wore a pale yellow tee shirt and faded, threadbare baggy jeans and literally nothing else, and she observed him as he tottered in the sand, back and forth from the concession stand, until he was no longer physically able to do so. She sat cross-legged in the sand and he took the hint, laid with his head in her lap. She grinned down at him, running her fingertips across the soft prickle of his scalp.
“Drowning, now?” she asked, and he gazed up at her from beneath perpetually hooded lids.
“Getting there,” he said.
“Why?" Her voice was soft and noninvasive. “What are you hiding from?”
He flinched, then shrugged, clearing his throat.
“You’ve got a son?” he asked. “I do, too.”
She raised both eyebrows.
“Do you?”
“His name is Dominic, like me. Only she calls him Junior.”
“She?” Leah repeated.
“Dominic Anthony Toretto, the Third.”
“What does he look like?”
“I’ve never seen him. I’d imagine he’s a good lookin’ little devil. My genes, you know.”
She rolled her eyes, but couldn’t help but smile.
“How old is he?”
The jest left Dominic’s features.
“Six weeks,” he replied absently. “Three days.” He looked at his watch. “Four hours. Twenty-three minutes. I don’t know how many seconds.”
Leah could taste the pain in his words, feel it seeping into her legs and burning her skin. It was rancid, acidic, open and raw.
“She?” Leah said again.
“She. Yeah. His mother.”
“Where are they?”
“Not here,” he murmured, and lit a cigarette, poking it between his lips and sucking hard off of it.
“Did they leave you here? Did she leave you?”
“She’s never been here,” he replied, scratching his chin.
“How long have you been here?”
And then his brow furrowed a bit, his expression changed, like something wasn’t right and he was trying to put his finger on it.
“What’s your last name?” he asked, struggling into a sitting position.
“St. Laurent,” she answered, searching his face, an uneasiness washing over her at the sudden shift in disposition, the invisible brick wall that had built so rapidly up around him.
“St. Laurent?” Now he was struggling to his feet, a great, swaying tower over her.
“Yes…” She spoke slowly, feeling herself become guarded as well, now.
“I see how it is.” A very loaded statement.
“What’s going on, Dominic.”
He was silent, just staring down at her for a moment.
“What’s your last name.”
She didn’t like his tone, or the way he was looking at her.
“My last name,” she said, no-nonsense, “Effective next week Tuesday, is St. Laurent. Peter’s last name is Hastings. If you don’t want to tell me about your past, Dominic, that's fine with me. I know there are plenty of things you’re hiding from, and I don’t need to hear about them. But don’t make me out to be one of them. Don’t get shitty with me.” Her words were as matter-of-fact as her tone, honest and straightforward, and he appeared to respect that, because his defensive air dropped, his shoulders relaxing, fists unclenching, and he fell to his knees in the sand beside her, looking sheepish. He tipped forward and landed his face in her lap.
“It won’t happen again,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
The bristle left her at his humility and apology.
“I’m guilty of a bit of my OWN paranoia from time to time, you know. Dominic Anthony Toretto.”
“The second,” he said, and she laughed.
“The second.”
“It’s just, your ID says Hastings, and-“
“No, stop.” She put one hand on top of his head. “We’ve sorted it. Leave it.”
“I’m really drunk.”
“You don’t say?”
“You’ll have to carry me home.” His words were slurred by alcohol and muffled in her leg, and yet somehow she still managed to get the gist of them, and she laughed a little, then went silent.
Home. This was Dominic’s home. In a few short days, they’d be thousands of miles apart. For always, probably, and she’d not see him again. The thought had passed quickly through her mind forty-eight hours prior without a hitch, and now it sickened her.
Watch it, the thus-far-successfully-suppressed logical part of her warned. That’s dangerous. Not needed. Nothing but trouble….OBJECTIVITY. Remember objectivity?
Dominic reached up and cupped her face in his hand, drawing her down so his mouth met hers. She answered her own rhetorical question.
Apparently not.
Written by La Mamacita