He leans back when she does, resting an elbow on the mattress. Breathing escapes him a little shorter than it did before, eyes warmly kindled as he studies her at this proximity. (For his part, his kiss had been receptive, perhaps even interpreted as passive, until it wasn't.)
Loxley turns his head, brushing a whiskery kiss against the corner of her mouth as he takes a hold of her hand, guides it to a small strap that will undo his sash, bound wide around his midsection. With that, he lays back as he loosens the fastenings at his throat—already a bit loose, in a rakishly rumpled sort of way, likely done deliberately in a reflective surface at some point—and tugs his tunic away, navigating the curl of his horns as he's done a billion times prior.
There's some fresh mottled bruising, cloudy, darker grey across his side. A few small scars, here and there, and a pale stripe of one, a more serious wound if long healed, slashed across his abdomen.
He leans up to kiss her again, matching her intent with his own, while his hands roam for her waistband. Tugs it free, and skims his palm up the bare skin beneath, following the curve of her waist. He has always characterised Derrica as soft, in only the most flattering of ways—a gentleness in spirit, but also the wave of her hair, her warm way of looking at things. It's a feeling he seeks as he touches and kisses her, pulling her tunic high up along her spine.
no subject
Loxley turns his head, brushing a whiskery kiss against the corner of her mouth as he takes a hold of her hand, guides it to a small strap that will undo his sash, bound wide around his midsection. With that, he lays back as he loosens the fastenings at his throat—already a bit loose, in a rakishly rumpled sort of way, likely done deliberately in a reflective surface at some point—and tugs his tunic away, navigating the curl of his horns as he's done a billion times prior.
There's some fresh mottled bruising, cloudy, darker grey across his side. A few small scars, here and there, and a pale stripe of one, a more serious wound if long healed, slashed across his abdomen.
He leans up to kiss her again, matching her intent with his own, while his hands roam for her waistband. Tugs it free, and skims his palm up the bare skin beneath, following the curve of her waist. He has always characterised Derrica as soft, in only the most flattering of ways—a gentleness in spirit, but also the wave of her hair, her warm way of looking at things. It's a feeling he seeks as he touches and kisses her, pulling her tunic high up along her spine.