He held his breath when she'd resettled, and again now when her hands smooth against his chest, warm skin and the roll of cooler metal. It's released when he laughs, quiet and husky, and says, as if to assure her, "A rapier," as he slides his hands further along her sides, encouraging her leaning in.
"It's not very good at leaving behind scars," Loxley says, his fingers following along the creases of linen that wrap around her. "At least, not like these. It's extremely good at running people through at arms length, however," ah, there, tugging free one of the loose linen ends, "and assisting in the business of rescuing damsels."
He unwinds the linens, lazy patience, letting it loosen and fall away.
Broad palmed, his hands smoothing up along her sides again, now teasing along the curve of her breast with his thumb. "I've learned no lessons about staying away from women who wield lances."
The hair pins slip from her fingers, vanished into the sheets to be found later by Loxley's back or Derrica's hip. She might have stretched past him to drop the pins onto the nightstand, but it's more satisfying to bend, body bowing closer under the slide of his palms.
"All the better for me," she says, mock serious, before a smile breaks across her face while she continues, "Maybe I'll be a damsel one of these days, so I can see you and it in action."
Her elbows come down, one on either side of his head. One finger traces along his horn, before she dips down to drop a brief kiss first to the corner of his mouth, linger for a moment and then kiss him again, properly, as she sinks her fingers into his hair.
But not for long, because she's right there, close and warm and kissing him. The surface texture of curled horns are not completely smooth, but tended to. The ordinarily tousled wildness of his hair also betrays an amount of seeing to in silky texture, if a little tangled from the day's events.
His hands come up, tracing along the braids in her hair, fingers stroking through looser locks and sweeping it all aside as he kisses her back, head lifting. His hands travel down her back, crowding them together just to feel and enjoy the sensation of being pressed together, of holding her to him, and it's all very luxurious and patient if you disregard the slight shift of his hips beneath her.
More movement, then, the intent being to gently roll her beneath him, the creaking bed frame announcing it much louder than necessary.
She would. She'll be happy to remind him of it, should the opportunity present itself when they're out in the world together. But in the moment, she's pleased with the his mouth and his beard, the restless, responsive movement of his body, and his hands, always his hands, on her bare skin.
And because of how close they are, one line of connection between their bodies, everything telegraphed by Loxley's hands on her back and the flex of his body beneath her, Derrica understands his intention even before the rearrangement of their position drags a groaning complaint from the bed. Their kiss breaks on her smile, broad and delighted. She's momentarily yielding, welcoming the shift in position. Loxley feels so good over her, and it's very tempting, except—
Rather than allowing the momentum to come to a stop, and Loxley to bear her down into the mattress, Derrica presses up before he can settle. They roll again, with Derrica's leg hooking around his hip, intending to pin him onto his back on the opposite side of the bed.
Assuming there's enough bed for this maneuver. Derrica hadn't looked before she'd followed this impulse.
It's a near miss, but with his proficiency in dexterity saving throws, Loxley steadies them both a hand clutching the edge of the bed and another onto Derrica when her knee slips slightly past the mattress edge. His smile is bright, and he'd laugh if he wasn't extremely distracted by physics, her body, his own.
"Noted," he says, a breathless-half laugh, and both hands come down to situate her more firmly atop him, shifting a bit further back from the edge. Once there, hands slide away from her waist to skim over her behind, curling himself up to brush a kiss against her jaw. Admiring, as promised, can occur from any angle.
Having dug her fingers in to his shoulders, bracing for slipping all the way to the floor in a heap, Loxley's save is rewarded with a bright, easy laugh. Her grip flexes on his shoulders, then loosens, settling with a slow roll of her hips as his mouth moves along her jaw.
"Good catch," comes softly, pitched low. She turns her head to find his mouth, kiss him again as her hands move down his chest to find the lacing of his trousers.
There's something so sweet in being indulged without question. Her kiss is very open, one hand leaving his lacing to cup his face. The set of her fingers is very light, skimming over his beard, thumb finding his cheek as she sinks into their kiss.
Loxley has always been easy to like. But some quiet, fond thing steals in between them now, and Derrica finds no reason to try and dispel it.
The deliberate movement of her hips gets a noise out of him, quiet and unbidden, and he doesn't have it in him to be very self-conscious about things like that. What's he going to do, pretend he isn't very attracted to her, while they're tangled so? Or turn his head to oblige in meeting that kiss, a harder exhale muffled there as her fingers tug at the fastenings of his trousers.
His hands squeeze as he returns the pressure of that kiss, open and inviting and indulgent, gaining a heated kind of edge, now. He's already stiff by the time she's opened his trousers, or at the very least, well on his way, warm all over and the lines of lean muscle roped to bone, pelvis and thigh and abdomen, all strung taut in spite of the languid mood a minute ago.
He likes to sleep with people he likes, people he knows, even if the knowing is done over the course of a couple of hours, usually. There's something oddly heightened and new about this, however, familiar with a person over some months, and he thinks he likes that too.
It's a good sound. Derrica kisses him harder for it, as if to catch the taste of it from his lips before it goes. For a moment, it stays the work of her hand, laces held loosely in her hand as her knuckles stray along the flex of his stomach.
She doesn't pull back from him when she takes him in hand. Stays pressed in tight against him, kissing his mouth, crowded in close, as she touches him. It's an unhurried, easy movement. Not lacking intention, just not possessed of the kind of focused urgency that leads to a particular end.
"I want to know everything you like," comes so softly, a murmur at the corner of his mouth in harmony with the slow shift of her hand over him. "And I want you to know me too."
Here is the thing that matters: the invitation, the offering up of something she needn't share. There is a way of doing this where Derrica gives up nothing at all. Most men are satisfied with that. Maybe Loxley would have been too. But that's not what she wants this to be.
Loxley's hands smooth up her back as her hand curls around him. He breathes out slow and long, hitched tighter in his chest when she presses kisses to his mouth. Doesn't miss a moment to touch her back, even in broader strokes, following the dips and bumps of her spine, the lines of muscle, until he can bury a hand in her hair and kiss her back.
His eyes open by a fraction when she speaks, and he smiles at what she says. "I want that very much," he says. His hand slips around, palm brushing along the side of her neck, fingers tracing the curve that flows from beneath her ear, down to her collarbone. Like he's indicating some part of her he's already quite fond of.
A humming pause, Derrica drawing back by degrees. Their noses bump. The idle shift of her hand over him doesn't falter. She smiles around the instinctive response of everywhere, the kind of response that's so broad as to be of little use. She pats his check gently as she shifts up, laying her forearm across her chest so she lean against him and look down into his face.
She dips briefly to peck him a soft kiss as she lets go of him. The lingering impression of Loxley's fingers prickle along her skin.
"Here," she tells him, with a trailing of her fingers at the high point of his throat. The solemn tone of her voice is offset by the brightness of her eyes, her flushed cheeks.
"And here," she continues, as she tiptoes across his shoulder, over her own arm, then down his chest, pausing over the scar across his belly to add, "And here."
Silver-grey skin doesn't betray much as far as rising blood and fluster go, but it's not a signifier Derrica needs. Like his clothing, Loxley's sense of reserve and whatever control he has fast on outward presentation is half-shed, and he lets himself sigh when her hand lifts a way, swallow when her fingers touch his throat.
His hands on her hips press thumbs teasingly into the hollows at her pelvis, activating those pressure points only gently. "That's a path I'd happily follow," he says, and there's a thread of strain in his voice, like his breathing has shifted a few degrees upwards, resting beneath the arm she has braced at his chest.
She might feel the tug at the fastenings of her trousers before even noticing he's shifted his hands at all, a lace pulled free and then taut, as if simply catching her there.
It's satisfying, having an effect on one's partner. The way he sighs catches at her, sparks up a sweet kind of glow in her face. Not smug, but affectionately pleased.
Having rocked her hips forward into the pressure of his thumbs, the realignment of his hands is observed only in anticipation of where he might put them. Her laces had somehow not ranked among potential options. As aware as she is of the winding tension at her waist, she lets it fold her back down to him. Her arm slides across his chest, second elbow joining the first to balance her there.
"Let me—" trails into a kiss, rather than a specific action. She might have shed her trousers along with her boots, before she arrived in such a comfortable position.
The trouble is: she'd regretted drawing up far enough to demonstrate her point only moments ago. To roll off him entirely requires some kind of fortification against the separation, even in pursuit of something wholly worthwhile.
Loxley chooses not to help her find it. Or does. It's a matter of perspective.
Regardless, she kisses him, and he kisses back, and he loosens the lacings further, far enough that his hand, warm and sure, slips in between the fabric and her skin. His palm applies more pressure than his fingers, which only touch and tease as he feels her, in that moment.
And demonstrates his ability to listen, as the next time the kiss breaks for the purposes of breathing, or the little realignments that occur, he nudges her jaw up and side to lay a whiskery kiss at that spot, high up on her throat. It's not as sweet as they've started, ardent and warm, head lifted while his other hand, free now, strokes back through her hair.
Again, Derrica considers: among Loxley's many charms, she is growing especially fond of his hands.
The pressure is good, even if it isn't enough. Derrica makes a low, hitching sound against his mouth, automatically encouraging as her hips cant down against his hand. It breaks into a soft moan when Loxley's mouth passes from her mouth to her neck. There's a limit to how far she can move her hands without closing the space between them in such a way that would be unhelpful to his efforts.
"That's so good," comes as a murmur, even as her fingers dig hard into his shoulders. It's praise as much for the application of his mouth as it is for the placement of his hand. "But it's not going to help me get these trousers off."
Hers or his? Both? All of it necessitates leaving his lap, a more unappealing prospect now than it had been minutes before.
His freer hand sweeps down, knuckles disappearing beneath the waistline at the small of her back, pushing pants down by an inch or two. But it's a very lazy gesture towards accomplishing this goal when she's on top of him like this, especially in contrast to what his other hand is doing, providing the blunt span of his palm for her to rub against, fingers pressing more intimately to see what other sounds she might make.
"I suppose not," he agrees, resting his head back. Eyes half hooded, arousal having a way of dulling the odd golden sheen to his eyes rather than sharpening it. "But I don't mind at all the thought of you coming undone right here, before we've hardly started." On the topic of things they like, anyway.
The answering laugh fragments into a deep, shuddering inhale as Derrica's fingers flex hard against his shoulders, as if to steady herself against the sensation. Derrica's head drops for a moment, hanging down as she takes advantage of his hand, the dip of his fingers. The pressure towards more has kindled in her belly, building steadily under Loxley's touch.
Even before she lifts her hand, her hands slip along his collarbone, arms sliding so she can cup his face in her palms. Her thumbs stroke the bristle of his beard.
"I meant for you to go first," Derrica tells him, breathless, smile widening in the wake of the protest. "You're spoiling my plans."
That gets a laugh, quiet and smokey. "Perhaps I will when I next place in a tourney," Loxley says, humour still there but all slightly breathless and distracted. "Or much sooner."
He can still feel where her fingers clutched his shoulders, feels both the conscious and unconscious movement of her body both against his own as well as the way it makes the bedframe shiver a little, and chases that gathering slickness between her legs with touches that gentle and firm up. His face tips a little beneath her hands, gaze shifting between her two eyes.
"But I can stop," he says. Teasing and true at the same time. "Is that what you want?"
Somehow, Derrica takes a moment to give the offer serious thought. There is real consideration of the idea of realigning the trajectory of their evening to what she'd been intending, though the roll of her hips doesn't falter as she considers him. Sweat prickles across her skin, gathers at the nape of her neck. His beard is not so course under her fingers. Her thumb finds the edge of his mouth, the smile curved there.
Yes, he would stop if she asked. That matters, along with all the rest of what's been exchanged this evening.
"Much sooner," she promises first, firm over the words. Not an answer to the question, but a statement of intent. Derrica draws in a very deep breath before continuing, "I don't want you to stop."
She can feel the beat of his pulse in his throat, at the very tips of where her fingers have come to rest. There's a tremor working through her body, in her thighs and her arms, everything supporting her weight, but her voice is almost steady when she tells him, "Give me more," in soft, low tones.
There's a subtle rise to his posture, other elbow against the mattress, that corresponds with his fingers pressing into her, shallow, withdrawing, then deeper. A yes transmitted physically, through the giving of the request, through the torque of his body beneath her. The subtle raise of his thighs, bracing lightly against the backs of her own.
Loxley turns his head, delivering a slightly clumsy, distracted kiss to her fingers. The shiver of his breath is also detectable, not exactly extremely removed from the things he is doing to her that they aren't doing things to himself.
But urgency is different to impatience. It feels good, to linger in thresholds, in suspense, and no part of him wants all this evening over too quickly.
In the moment, all of these things come together in harmony.
It is as much about his mouth on her hand as it is about the way he is touching her as it is about the way his body shifts to brace her. The deep ache in her that had wanted more had wanted all of these things. Not so much his hand but the way Loxley responds to her with his entire body, every part of him.
Derrica bows her own body down to meet him, palm on his cheek steering his face back to her to be kissed. Or to be leaned against, forehead to forehead, while her composure slips away from her and her breath comes in hitching gasps. One hand finds its way down alongside his elbow to take her weight, the other falls back to Loxley's shoulder to cling on to him once more. If her nails embed crescents there, she'll apologize after.
She tells him more or deeper or there, stay there. After a point, she doesn't need to tell him anything.
How much time passes? Impossible to say. Only that time must pass while her attention narrows to his breath and his body beneath her and what he is drawing out of her, that she braces herself against it, wavering until she can't do anything but comes juddering apart over him.
She says his name after, a little absent, as if it's the first that that comes to mind as she kisses the corner of his mouth.
He winds an arm around her, as much to feel her more completely as she comes as it is to offer something to brace against, to relax beneath. The hand that was working her stills, pressing warm, slow to ease back away to splay low against her belly. She says his name, and he says, "Hello, darling," against the kiss, before tipping his head to get another one, more firmly aligned.
And then her cheek, and jaw, both arms forming a loose circle around her waist. His own sense of want feels pleasantly confused, id-based suggestions like a glass of wine wouldn't go amiss, or to rest for a moment in this comfortable tangle, or to hurry into something new.
"Even lovelier than I imagined," he says, somewhere against her throat, voice warm.
The answering laugh is still unsteady, Derrica's breathing coming unevenly as she settles into his arms. She's aware her thighs are still trembling, and there's nothing to be done about it even if she wanted to. All the tension he'd wound up into her body is gone, and she is, for the moment, pliant where she's draped against him while she catches her breath.
"You'll have to tell me what else you've imagined someday," comes as her hand cedes its grip on his shoulder to catch briefly at the nape of his neck before sliding up into his hair. Her tone is only slightly muzzy around the edges, focus sharpening as she catches her breath. Derrica's nails draw along his scalp, encouraging Loxley to hold his place for the moment while she gathers herself. "Maybe sometime when neither of us can sleep."
Not to suggest sleep as a possibility in this exact moment. This is some invitation for the future, a door being propped open for his benefit should he find himself interested.
Steadier, the drag of her nails along his scalp continues unbroken as she asks, "After I've gotten your trousers off, have you thought about what you might like to do for the rest of the night?"
Equal parts sincere and teasing, the kind of statement that might well be followed with I have suggestions because she certainly does.
It's an invitation picked up, tucked away, with all the self-satisfied intention of someone (with plenty of imagination) who'll be glad to exploit it at a later date. His answer is an agreeable sound hummed against her throat, or maybe that's in response to the pleasant tickle of her nails against his skin, through his hair.
Both, most likely. The next rake of her nails has him resting his head back to look at her, studying her face, the near sleepy expression that's slowly waking back up. A brighter smile at the prospect of properly disrobing, and his hands slide down to tuck beneath her waistband again, touching just to touch rather than restarting anything immediately.
"I'd like to know many of your intentions are salvageable," he says. "It's the least I could do."
"Well, I certainly can't get you off first now," is mock-admonishment, the effect of which is dispelled immediately by the brightness of her smile. "But we could still—"
A break, words tapering off to be replaced by the movement of her body, the suggestive downward roll of her hips against him while her hands come back to his shoulders. It's not a difficult thing to pick up on, this telegraphed offer. Surely something easy to divine from the insistent way she'd insinuated herself into his lap.
"If you like," follows after, her head tipping as she looks back at him. It matters, what Loxley might like from this. There's no hesitation; the idea of being indulgent with him comes easy to her.
Loxley's bright smile back at her falters, but the dimming isn't for reasons of having nothing to smile about. Just the catch in his breath when she moves against him, the bodily twitch of interest out of him, like he'd like to meet that movement himself.
Or roll her over, which he doesn't do. Not because it's exactly what he wants, but it's a habit, isn't it, the instinct to show up, to delight and surprise, as oppose to accept. His thoughts don't stray very far in that direction, more focused on things like the smoothness of her skin, the playful slide of his palm over her ass as he curls in a little to nudge a kiss to her mouth.
"I would like to still," he affirms, humour laced through there, but voice hollower and husky with a very serious amount of want.
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charmoffensive) wrote2019-10-19 02:48 pm
no subject
"It's not very good at leaving behind scars," Loxley says, his fingers following along the creases of linen that wrap around her. "At least, not like these. It's extremely good at running people through at arms length, however," ah, there, tugging free one of the loose linen ends, "and assisting in the business of rescuing damsels."
He unwinds the linens, lazy patience, letting it loosen and fall away.
Broad palmed, his hands smoothing up along her sides again, now teasing along the curve of her breast with his thumb. "I've learned no lessons about staying away from women who wield lances."
no subject
"All the better for me," she says, mock serious, before a smile breaks across her face while she continues, "Maybe I'll be a damsel one of these days, so I can see you and it in action."
Her elbows come down, one on either side of his head. One finger traces along his horn, before she dips down to drop a brief kiss first to the corner of his mouth, linger for a moment and then kiss him again, properly, as she sinks her fingers into his hair.
no subject
But not for long, because she's right there, close and warm and kissing him. The surface texture of curled horns are not completely smooth, but tended to. The ordinarily tousled wildness of his hair also betrays an amount of seeing to in silky texture, if a little tangled from the day's events.
His hands come up, tracing along the braids in her hair, fingers stroking through looser locks and sweeping it all aside as he kisses her back, head lifting. His hands travel down her back, crowding them together just to feel and enjoy the sensation of being pressed together, of holding her to him, and it's all very luxurious and patient if you disregard the slight shift of his hips beneath her.
More movement, then, the intent being to gently roll her beneath him, the creaking bed frame announcing it much louder than necessary.
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And because of how close they are, one line of connection between their bodies, everything telegraphed by Loxley's hands on her back and the flex of his body beneath her, Derrica understands his intention even before the rearrangement of their position drags a groaning complaint from the bed. Their kiss breaks on her smile, broad and delighted. She's momentarily yielding, welcoming the shift in position. Loxley feels so good over her, and it's very tempting, except—
Rather than allowing the momentum to come to a stop, and Loxley to bear her down into the mattress, Derrica presses up before he can settle. They roll again, with Derrica's leg hooking around his hip, intending to pin him onto his back on the opposite side of the bed.
Assuming there's enough bed for this maneuver. Derrica hadn't looked before she'd followed this impulse.
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It's a near miss, but with his proficiency in dexterity saving throws, Loxley steadies them both a hand clutching the edge of the bed and another onto Derrica when her knee slips slightly past the mattress edge. His smile is bright, and he'd laugh if he wasn't extremely distracted by physics, her body, his own.
"Noted," he says, a breathless-half laugh, and both hands come down to situate her more firmly atop him, shifting a bit further back from the edge. Once there, hands slide away from her waist to skim over her behind, curling himself up to brush a kiss against her jaw. Admiring, as promised, can occur from any angle.
extreme mercer voice: rogues, man
"Good catch," comes softly, pitched low. She turns her head to find his mouth, kiss him again as her hands move down his chest to find the lacing of his trousers.
There's something so sweet in being indulged without question. Her kiss is very open, one hand leaving his lacing to cup his face. The set of her fingers is very light, skimming over his beard, thumb finding his cheek as she sinks into their kiss.
Loxley has always been easy to like. But some quiet, fond thing steals in between them now, and Derrica finds no reason to try and dispel it.
that reliable talent
His hands squeeze as he returns the pressure of that kiss, open and inviting and indulgent, gaining a heated kind of edge, now. He's already stiff by the time she's opened his trousers, or at the very least, well on his way, warm all over and the lines of lean muscle roped to bone, pelvis and thigh and abdomen, all strung taut in spite of the languid mood a minute ago.
He likes to sleep with people he likes, people he knows, even if the knowing is done over the course of a couple of hours, usually. There's something oddly heightened and new about this, however, familiar with a person over some months, and he thinks he likes that too.
no subject
She doesn't pull back from him when she takes him in hand. Stays pressed in tight against him, kissing his mouth, crowded in close, as she touches him. It's an unhurried, easy movement. Not lacking intention, just not possessed of the kind of focused urgency that leads to a particular end.
"I want to know everything you like," comes so softly, a murmur at the corner of his mouth in harmony with the slow shift of her hand over him. "And I want you to know me too."
Here is the thing that matters: the invitation, the offering up of something she needn't share. There is a way of doing this where Derrica gives up nothing at all. Most men are satisfied with that. Maybe Loxley would have been too. But that's not what she wants this to be.
no subject
His eyes open by a fraction when she speaks, and he smiles at what she says. "I want that very much," he says. His hand slips around, palm brushing along the side of her neck, fingers tracing the curve that flows from beneath her ear, down to her collarbone. Like he's indicating some part of her he's already quite fond of.
"Where do you like to be kissed?"
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She dips briefly to peck him a soft kiss as she lets go of him. The lingering impression of Loxley's fingers prickle along her skin.
"Here," she tells him, with a trailing of her fingers at the high point of his throat. The solemn tone of her voice is offset by the brightness of her eyes, her flushed cheeks.
"And here," she continues, as she tiptoes across his shoulder, over her own arm, then down his chest, pausing over the scar across his belly to add, "And here."
no subject
His hands on her hips press thumbs teasingly into the hollows at her pelvis, activating those pressure points only gently. "That's a path I'd happily follow," he says, and there's a thread of strain in his voice, like his breathing has shifted a few degrees upwards, resting beneath the arm she has braced at his chest.
She might feel the tug at the fastenings of her trousers before even noticing he's shifted his hands at all, a lace pulled free and then taut, as if simply catching her there.
no subject
Having rocked her hips forward into the pressure of his thumbs, the realignment of his hands is observed only in anticipation of where he might put them. Her laces had somehow not ranked among potential options. As aware as she is of the winding tension at her waist, she lets it fold her back down to him. Her arm slides across his chest, second elbow joining the first to balance her there.
"Let me—" trails into a kiss, rather than a specific action. She might have shed her trousers along with her boots, before she arrived in such a comfortable position.
The trouble is: she'd regretted drawing up far enough to demonstrate her point only moments ago. To roll off him entirely requires some kind of fortification against the separation, even in pursuit of something wholly worthwhile.
no subject
Regardless, she kisses him, and he kisses back, and he loosens the lacings further, far enough that his hand, warm and sure, slips in between the fabric and her skin. His palm applies more pressure than his fingers, which only touch and tease as he feels her, in that moment.
And demonstrates his ability to listen, as the next time the kiss breaks for the purposes of breathing, or the little realignments that occur, he nudges her jaw up and side to lay a whiskery kiss at that spot, high up on her throat. It's not as sweet as they've started, ardent and warm, head lifted while his other hand, free now, strokes back through her hair.
no subject
The pressure is good, even if it isn't enough. Derrica makes a low, hitching sound against his mouth, automatically encouraging as her hips cant down against his hand. It breaks into a soft moan when Loxley's mouth passes from her mouth to her neck. There's a limit to how far she can move her hands without closing the space between them in such a way that would be unhelpful to his efforts.
"That's so good," comes as a murmur, even as her fingers dig hard into his shoulders. It's praise as much for the application of his mouth as it is for the placement of his hand. "But it's not going to help me get these trousers off."
Hers or his? Both? All of it necessitates leaving his lap, a more unappealing prospect now than it had been minutes before.
no subject
His freer hand sweeps down, knuckles disappearing beneath the waistline at the small of her back, pushing pants down by an inch or two. But it's a very lazy gesture towards accomplishing this goal when she's on top of him like this, especially in contrast to what his other hand is doing, providing the blunt span of his palm for her to rub against, fingers pressing more intimately to see what other sounds she might make.
"I suppose not," he agrees, resting his head back. Eyes half hooded, arousal having a way of dulling the odd golden sheen to his eyes rather than sharpening it. "But I don't mind at all the thought of you coming undone right here, before we've hardly started." On the topic of things they like, anyway.
no subject
Even before she lifts her hand, her hands slip along his collarbone, arms sliding so she can cup his face in her palms. Her thumbs stroke the bristle of his beard.
"I meant for you to go first," Derrica tells him, breathless, smile widening in the wake of the protest. "You're spoiling my plans."
no subject
He can still feel where her fingers clutched his shoulders, feels both the conscious and unconscious movement of her body both against his own as well as the way it makes the bedframe shiver a little, and chases that gathering slickness between her legs with touches that gentle and firm up. His face tips a little beneath her hands, gaze shifting between her two eyes.
"But I can stop," he says. Teasing and true at the same time. "Is that what you want?"
no subject
Somehow, Derrica takes a moment to give the offer serious thought. There is real consideration of the idea of realigning the trajectory of their evening to what she'd been intending, though the roll of her hips doesn't falter as she considers him. Sweat prickles across her skin, gathers at the nape of her neck. His beard is not so course under her fingers. Her thumb finds the edge of his mouth, the smile curved there.
Yes, he would stop if she asked. That matters, along with all the rest of what's been exchanged this evening.
"Much sooner," she promises first, firm over the words. Not an answer to the question, but a statement of intent. Derrica draws in a very deep breath before continuing, "I don't want you to stop."
She can feel the beat of his pulse in his throat, at the very tips of where her fingers have come to rest. There's a tremor working through her body, in her thighs and her arms, everything supporting her weight, but her voice is almost steady when she tells him, "Give me more," in soft, low tones.
no subject
Loxley turns his head, delivering a slightly clumsy, distracted kiss to her fingers. The shiver of his breath is also detectable, not exactly extremely removed from the things he is doing to her that they aren't doing things to himself.
But urgency is different to impatience. It feels good, to linger in thresholds, in suspense, and no part of him wants all this evening over too quickly.
no subject
It is as much about his mouth on her hand as it is about the way he is touching her as it is about the way his body shifts to brace her. The deep ache in her that had wanted more had wanted all of these things. Not so much his hand but the way Loxley responds to her with his entire body, every part of him.
Derrica bows her own body down to meet him, palm on his cheek steering his face back to her to be kissed. Or to be leaned against, forehead to forehead, while her composure slips away from her and her breath comes in hitching gasps. One hand finds its way down alongside his elbow to take her weight, the other falls back to Loxley's shoulder to cling on to him once more. If her nails embed crescents there, she'll apologize after.
She tells him more or deeper or there, stay there. After a point, she doesn't need to tell him anything.
How much time passes? Impossible to say. Only that time must pass while her attention narrows to his breath and his body beneath her and what he is drawing out of her, that she braces herself against it, wavering until she can't do anything but comes juddering apart over him.
She says his name after, a little absent, as if it's the first that that comes to mind as she kisses the corner of his mouth.
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And then her cheek, and jaw, both arms forming a loose circle around her waist. His own sense of want feels pleasantly confused, id-based suggestions like a glass of wine wouldn't go amiss, or to rest for a moment in this comfortable tangle, or to hurry into something new.
"Even lovelier than I imagined," he says, somewhere against her throat, voice warm.
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"You'll have to tell me what else you've imagined someday," comes as her hand cedes its grip on his shoulder to catch briefly at the nape of his neck before sliding up into his hair. Her tone is only slightly muzzy around the edges, focus sharpening as she catches her breath. Derrica's nails draw along his scalp, encouraging Loxley to hold his place for the moment while she gathers herself. "Maybe sometime when neither of us can sleep."
Not to suggest sleep as a possibility in this exact moment. This is some invitation for the future, a door being propped open for his benefit should he find himself interested.
Steadier, the drag of her nails along his scalp continues unbroken as she asks, "After I've gotten your trousers off, have you thought about what you might like to do for the rest of the night?"
Equal parts sincere and teasing, the kind of statement that might well be followed with I have suggestions because she certainly does.
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Both, most likely. The next rake of her nails has him resting his head back to look at her, studying her face, the near sleepy expression that's slowly waking back up. A brighter smile at the prospect of properly disrobing, and his hands slide down to tuck beneath her waistband again, touching just to touch rather than restarting anything immediately.
"I'd like to know many of your intentions are salvageable," he says. "It's the least I could do."
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A break, words tapering off to be replaced by the movement of her body, the suggestive downward roll of her hips against him while her hands come back to his shoulders. It's not a difficult thing to pick up on, this telegraphed offer. Surely something easy to divine from the insistent way she'd insinuated herself into his lap.
"If you like," follows after, her head tipping as she looks back at him. It matters, what Loxley might like from this. There's no hesitation; the idea of being indulgent with him comes easy to her.
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Or roll her over, which he doesn't do. Not because it's exactly what he wants, but it's a habit, isn't it, the instinct to show up, to delight and surprise, as oppose to accept. His thoughts don't stray very far in that direction, more focused on things like the smoothness of her skin, the playful slide of his palm over her ass as he curls in a little to nudge a kiss to her mouth.
"I would like to still," he affirms, humour laced through there, but voice hollower and husky with a very serious amount of want.
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dwrp don't oppress me with your notif shenanigans
betrayal from dreamwidth
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