Intimate Understanding

Tim said nothing – later – when he arrived on Rachel's doorstep.

He was noticeably drunk. She looped one of his arms around her shoulders and dragged him inside. The last thing she needed was one of her nosey neighbors floating a play by play description to her mother. Then she would have to listen to a sermon about loose women and the men who indulge in what they have to offer. Rachel had heard a similar speech months before when her mother met, Raylan briefly in passing. He didn't make a good first impression. There were mentions of lust in his eyes and disaster waiting to happen.

"That man won't do nothing but break your heart. Last thing I need is another dead…"

Her mother's tirade ended before her sister's name left her lips. Something changed in the older woman's eyes when she cupped her daughter's face in her hands, "Just find somebody that's gonna love you. Hurtin' doesn't do a thing but add wrinkles and gray hair while shortening your time here on God's green earth."

Rachel took a deep breath and lugged Tim through the foyer. His feet tangled with hers and they nearly fell once, twice, all before they collapsed into a sweaty heap on her couch. She was breathing heavily as she brushed the stray strands from her eyes. She suddenly became conscious of the tank and boy shorts she wore and that intoxicated gleam in her colleague's eye that reminded her of another man that often showed up on her doorstep in the same condition.

Twelve hours before, Deputy Tim Gutterson was of sound mind and body. He was sober and sentenced to ride along with his fellow...

Rachel groaned for the umpteenth time since Tim's arrival. She recognized the signs that only came with a night out with the Stetson hat wearing idiot; the scent of debauchery hinged on endless rounds of whatever was on tap at the dive with the greasy and delicious onion rings. She tugged at the cotton hem of her shirt attempting to cover more of her exposed skin. Her drunken visitor's fingers curved around the length of her ponytail and she grew increasingly.

"I saw your boyfriend tonight."

Tim whispered against the shell of her ear.

Rachel reminded herself that alcohol enabled the insecure fool and she fought the urge to engage in an unnecessary argument.

"Fucker…asked me…" Tim's words slurred as his train of thought left the station, "Know what he asked me Rach?"

She cringed at the use of the familiar nickname. She added space between them, curling into the corner of the couch and gripping a pillow tightly in her lap.

"He asked me what the hell was going on between us and I told him hell if I know." Tim stood on shaky legs, "He left you. He hurt you."

His statements pierced her soul. She'd never said that much, he'd deciphered the facts between tears and shots of jack.

"He doesn't deserve a second chance." He stood tall, "He doesn't deserve you."

The man took a graceless tumble to the couch, nearly falling on top of her. She sat there for a moment, unsure of what to do next, whether she should reach for him or add more distance between their bodies. There were moments of instability that came and went with Tim. She'd never pressed him about what he had seen or endured during the early operations of the War on Terror. He was strong and fragile in the same breadth.

"What the hell is going on?'

Tim mouthed the words more than he said them. Rachel didn't have an answer, not one that she could make audible. So she moved forward, kissing him lightly. Her lips landed on the corner of his mouth.

He didn't respond.

He sat there, back ramrod straight, and eyes focused on the wall before them.

She tried again, kissing him with firmer lips, with more intensity. She threw a leg across his waist and settled her body on his lap. His hands found her shoulders, slid down her back, and finally rested on her ass.

Rachel slipped Tim another kiss, this time his lips parted and his mouth granted access to the warmth of her tongue. The slightest moan escaped him and encouraged her to move further. She lowered her attentions, pausing to taste the point of his chin and the dimple that was often highlighted by his smile. Lower she moved to the Adam's apple that bobbed, nervously up and down with every sound he emitted as her hands recorded every inch of his body.

She settled on his neck, trailing warm breath along his skin. She remembered their first time; his uncertainty at the ability to deliver upon the promise in his jeans. Now he wasn't the most well – endowed man but for what he lacked in size, he far exceeded in attention to detail and effort expelled. Her fingers found his zipper as she searched for that man again, the one consumed with pleasing her. She found him when her palm pressed against his lower abdomen and drifted between denim and cotton.

Tim had Rachel on her back in seconds. Her legs spread and his body between them. The haze had lifted and she was sure that his mind was clearer. She raised her hips, brushing against the part of him peeking from the open fly of his jeans.

His thumb grazed her lips, "I don't want to be second best."

She nodded, "You're not."

Rachel wrapped her legs around him and allowed her arms to circle his neck. He dipped lower, claiming her lips, before allowing his tongue to taste salt slick skin at the base of her neck. He took his time that night, laying claim to her in an attempt to erase the memories evoked by the presence of the man who refused to mention by name. He reacquainted himself with her left and right breast. He made a proper introduction with her belly button and when fingers, then tongue separated her delicate folds, the lady marshal finally exhaled and murmured Tim's name.