That very first time, after the joust, Loxley had—
Not promised, not exactly. But she remembers his face, the way his voice dipped talking about where he'd put his mouth if he could. Not a promise, but the kind of hazy intent for the future that always tends to coalesce in the newness of any coupling. She remembers the clench of wanting exactly what he'd described the moment he'd said it.
His mouth is so warm, and his hand feels good pressed there while he applies mouth and opposite hand to her skin. It would feel very good, if she let him continue.
But her fingers slide into his hair, along the base of his horns, as she says, "Loxley, wait."
And it takes her a moment to resolve the urge into words, instead of simply drawing him up to her by the catch of her fingers in his hair. But she murmurs, "Come back."
no subject
Not promised, not exactly. But she remembers his face, the way his voice dipped talking about where he'd put his mouth if he could. Not a promise, but the kind of hazy intent for the future that always tends to coalesce in the newness of any coupling. She remembers the clench of wanting exactly what he'd described the moment he'd said it.
His mouth is so warm, and his hand feels good pressed there while he applies mouth and opposite hand to her skin. It would feel very good, if she let him continue.
But her fingers slide into his hair, along the base of his horns, as she says, "Loxley, wait."
And it takes her a moment to resolve the urge into words, instead of simply drawing him up to her by the catch of her fingers in his hair. But she murmurs, "Come back."