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.
When she kisses him again, it's an affirmation. Alright telegraphed in the openness of their kiss, before she draws back with a sigh.
Where she's stayed tucked in so close before, now she sits all the way back with a rueful smile. Her hands draw down from his shoulders, over his chest, down his stomach once more, but gather his laces rather than taking him in hand.
"Next time, we'll undress in better order," she tells him, serious right up until the point that she laughs, and rolls off him, disrupting his hands. She lands to one side, stretching out on her back beside him. All parts of her seem oversensitized, that lingering tremor at the exertion remaining even as she lifts her hips to skin off her trousers and kick them off the side of the bed.
Loxley's smile lights up in the second before she rolls of off him. "We're very attractive," he says, keeping his voice even and serious as he likewise pushes his trousers down off his hips, sits up to tug them the rest of the way off. "Who can blame us for being impatient?" No jury would convict, etc.
Speaking of—trousers are discarded over the side with a flick of his ankle, and he moves back towards Derrica, connecting a kiss to her shoulder, a hand finding her hip, not to pull either of them in one direction or another, but to touch. To look down the now gloriously naked length of her, to put himself within range of contact.
There's such a gloriously lack of urgency in this. There's nothing in the warmth of his hand but the pleasure of contact. She rolls onto her side, body curving in towards him.
"You're beautiful," she tells him, as her fingers tap at his chest. Her eyes flick down, then back up. It almost feels like too small a thing to say. Loxley is beautiful, but he's so many other things.
She'll find occasion to tell him about those qualities too. It doesn't all have to fit into this one night.
Maybe it is small, but there's something in it that seems to surprise him. Maybe its delivery in the moment, or Derrica saying it, or the word she chooses. It's a surprise that's received well in the look up from where he'd settled his attention on his fingers tracking the pathway of her clavicle.
"Flatterer," rather than try to repeat the same thing back at her, which feels so absurdly apparent, but he's carding his fingers up into her hair and drawing her into the kind of kiss that makes that sentiment known.
He lets that go on for a moment, before saying, "In every room you enter, or out there in the midst of dancing and music, I can hardly take my eyes off you," sounds like flattery, too, but delivered earnestly, like this is a problem for him personally.
There have been others who have said variations of such a sentiment to her in the past. Derrica isn't unaware of herself, how she looks, the effect she might have. But because of that, she knows the difference between the ways such a compliment might be said. There are ways to say a thing like that and concealed behind it is some grasping, covetous thing. It's a type of admiration containing the kind of desire that comes with hooks meant to tether.
Loxley says this thing so sweetly. He says this thing and offers up a truth about himself as he does it. It's a bit like being given a gift. Her face glows in response to it. Tucked close against his side with his hand in her hair, she could kiss him again. But she doesn't, not yet. Her fingers trace a nonsense pattern over sternum.
"What dilemma," Derrica says, a little pinch of concern offset by the obvious pleasure in her expression. The flush hasn't left her face, nor cooled from where it spread down her throat. "Because I don't think I want you to stop looking at me."
"I'll suffer through somehow," Loxley says, easy and quick, but everything toned down and quiet in this proximity. "But I expect the real torture will be for everyone around us."
His fingers likewise skim across her skin, not so much in patterns than pathways, mapping the natural lines made by bone and muscle, her curves, all slow and light and lazy. Like he is indulging in the thing that looking naturally pulls him towards, which is to touch. He wonders if that's something she welcomes outside a bedroom as well.
He wonders a lot of things that will be fun to find out.
He lifts his hand, the backs of his knuckles easing down her jaw, admiring the flush of her skin, the subtle look of a mouth well-kissed.
All Loxley's languid explorations have their effect. The trailing slide of his fingers turn her breath shallow, begin that slow winding tip towards pulling her entire body taut. It doesn't tickle, but the lightness of it oversensitizes her skin, draws shivers from her as she hooks her knee over his to tangle their legs together.
"I don't want to move," she admits, the dip of humor in her voice betraying that this is the kind of statement that's both true and untrue by turns. She does want more, except that: "This feels good."
Not a means to an end, but a comfortable exchange of contact, enjoyable in it's own right. His hands are very good on her skin. Her fingers have migrated to his bicep, marking out the shape of muscle there as she watches him looking at her.
That is good too. Derrica is not often interested in being admired, but she likes Loxley's expression when he studies her.
Loxley responds to that, the comfortable weight of her leg hooked up onto his, by nudging his own to nudge between hers. It feels a little more like how they might lay together after they've done everything they've indulged in, but this lazy lapses of energy feel just as good too. Good, to simply be with someone in simple ways.
Still—
Humour has the corners of his eyes crease, and he says, "I do like watching you move," a confession, but there's no physical push to change anything up—at least, not forcefully. The trail of his fingertips shifts lower, knuckles brushing down the centre of her abdomen, over the scarring there, and then further down, touching that warm juncture of her thighs at the same moment he leans in to kiss her.
"And listening to you sigh and gasp," he says, and with a smile audible in his voice, "and tell me what you want."
There is some immediate, yielding response from her body; for a moment, every part of her softens, welcoming his hands and his mouth.
Then, just gently, there is a nip of teeth. More pressure than bite, shifting to a smile as she draws back. His hands are allowed to hold their place as she sets her palms at his shoulders and asked, "And if I want you to sit up against the headboard?"
A query that, once spoken, Derrica thinks better of. What are the exact limitations of what Loxley's bed will be able to withstand?
Loxley seems confident, anyway. There's a list forwards, like the temptation had been to go with her when nipped, but pausing at her answer. "Then I'd say I like that just as well." The bedframe complains only slightly ominously (you get used to it, maybe) as he pushes himself up to sit, carelessly pushing bedthings out of the way as he settles his back against the board.
Fixes his hair, while he has a second, just a quick swoop of long fingers past the blunt connections of horns and skull. Likely this is the only twitch towards self-consciousness he's shown, or will, comfortable with all his clothing on the floor, the relaxed stretch of his posture.
It's not a loss, only a readjustment, but it still feels a bit wrenching to lose the closeness of him alongside her. That's more than sufficient motivation to follow him up.
Derrica sits up on her heels first alongside Loxley, then mirrors his movement by sweeping the mass of her hair back from her face. A few bits of stray jewelry have yet to be removed, and it might mean tangling later, if she doesn't pull them out after they finish. But she doesn't care to stop for that now.
And then she reclaims her space, closes the distance between them to return to his lap. She touches his face first, retraces the drag of his hand through his hair, while she settles her weight over his thighs, reaches down to take him in hand as she kisses him, tugs lightly at the curls over his nape.
"Welcome back," he says, quietly, barely anything between a breath in and a kiss, which gets a relieved, pleasured sound out of him. Maybe for the kiss itself but also very likely for the hand wrapped warm around him. He feels as though his whole body responds, livens, held in fine tension between the kiss to his mouth, the hand in his hair, the other on his cock.
His arms move around her, his hands come up to bury themselves in her hair, a clutch designed to stimulate rather than pull. He smiles a little into the kiss to imagine how many of those she's been with before have been unable to keep themselves from that action alone, like the shining glimmers of metal in those waves are more than enough encouragement.
"I missed you," is a nonsensical, silly thing to say, but she says it anyway, smiling into their kiss. She's had him close to her since the moment she crossed the room to his bed, but she can still pretend that the handful of minutes in which they rearranged themselves is a significant amount of time.
There is some temptation to draw this out. Just as there had been temptation to stay tangled side by side, or to have let him wind her up a second time.
A question, posed so softly against his mouth: "How long could I touch you like before it was too much?"
It's the sort of question that has its own tangible affect, as live as if she'd tightened the curl of her fingers. It draws a twitch from him, a second spent rummaging around for a clever thing to say, while his hands feel her curls between his fingers, wind them around only to come loose again.
The headboard creaks as he leans back rather than curling up into her kiss. Still extremely easy to reconnect in that way, his hands still in her hair, hers in his, but he can look at her with blur.
"Depends," finally. "You're not in a hurry, are you?"
Something said like a promise or a proposal, her voice dipping honeyed over all night.
Except she doesn't want to take all night for this. The slow slide and twist of her hand continues on, no break in the rhythm, but the shift of her weight over his thighs as she slides forward by degrees is telling.
"Would you like that?" is a softer question. Not so specifically about the act in question, but a quieter, prompting thing.
Loxley's hands come down to rest on the backs of her thighs, articulate points of contact where fingertips gently dimple her skin. Like the potential to do more is there, to lift or to pull or anything, but held in reserve and just feeling as she tips herself in by those fractions.
Between them, the air feels close and warm, and his skin hot. There'd been a sketch of a smile at her first answer, distracted. And then her softer question, and his hands squeeze her, needful, not quite conscious. The next twist of her hand gets a noise out of him, quiet and broken off, and the slight push of her thighs under her, knees raising an inch as tension strings through him.
"Yes," he says. No line, this time. Something luxurious in this pace, yes, but also something risky, vulnerable, in allowing him to be driven to a point in the midst of this all.
Here is something of note: Derrica has stayed longer in Loxley's bed than any other partners' in quite some time, and they are not nearly finished with each other.
And here is something else of note: There is a way of this in which no one shares anything vulnerable. But they're trading something between them. Is the noise Loxley makes akin to how Derrica had shuddered apart over him? Maybe.
Or maybe not. They've only just begun this exercise, after all.
The yes is all there is for some time. It's permissive, so Derrica obliges him without hesitation. She leans in to kiss him, open-mouthed and firm, as her hand draws up and down in smooth, repetitive motions. Her chest meets his as she crowds in against him, hand in his hair tightening and loosening by turns.
"What else would you like?" comes in a murmur, breaking the exchange of gasping breaths between them. Derrica asks this directly against his mouth in an almost-kiss before her lips move farther, find the high point of his throat to kiss there as she touches him, as her thighs flex against the grip of his palms.
That grip squeezes again as Loxley lets his head tip backwards, body shifting in those small and subtle ways to meet her in turn, pressing them both close. His hands shift, pushing more intimate where he smooths his fingers down around to her inner thighs from behind, thumbs pushing into soft skin, sweeping in stroking arcs.
"Oh, you know," he sighs out. "Everything."
His hips push up a fraction beneath her against her hand, and for all this talk of all night, he feels like he's teetering on some form of cusp, and has been this whole time. He turns his head to sort of nuzzle a kiss into her hair. "I would like you," he says, quieter, husky but direct. "I would like to fuck you, Derrica, and for you to have me, anyway you like--"
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charmoffensive) wrote2019-10-19 02:48 pm
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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.
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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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Where she's stayed tucked in so close before, now she sits all the way back with a rueful smile. Her hands draw down from his shoulders, over his chest, down his stomach once more, but gather his laces rather than taking him in hand.
"Next time, we'll undress in better order," she tells him, serious right up until the point that she laughs, and rolls off him, disrupting his hands. She lands to one side, stretching out on her back beside him. All parts of her seem oversensitized, that lingering tremor at the exertion remaining even as she lifts her hips to skin off her trousers and kick them off the side of the bed.
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Speaking of—trousers are discarded over the side with a flick of his ankle, and he moves back towards Derrica, connecting a kiss to her shoulder, a hand finding her hip, not to pull either of them in one direction or another, but to touch. To look down the now gloriously naked length of her, to put himself within range of contact.
"Pants first, is what you're imagining?"
He'll shut up pretty soon, don't worry.
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There's such a gloriously lack of urgency in this. There's nothing in the warmth of his hand but the pleasure of contact. She rolls onto her side, body curving in towards him.
"You're beautiful," she tells him, as her fingers tap at his chest. Her eyes flick down, then back up. It almost feels like too small a thing to say. Loxley is beautiful, but he's so many other things.
She'll find occasion to tell him about those qualities too. It doesn't all have to fit into this one night.
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"Flatterer," rather than try to repeat the same thing back at her, which feels so absurdly apparent, but he's carding his fingers up into her hair and drawing her into the kind of kiss that makes that sentiment known.
He lets that go on for a moment, before saying, "In every room you enter, or out there in the midst of dancing and music, I can hardly take my eyes off you," sounds like flattery, too, but delivered earnestly, like this is a problem for him personally.
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Loxley says this thing so sweetly. He says this thing and offers up a truth about himself as he does it. It's a bit like being given a gift. Her face glows in response to it. Tucked close against his side with his hand in her hair, she could kiss him again. But she doesn't, not yet. Her fingers trace a nonsense pattern over sternum.
"What dilemma," Derrica says, a little pinch of concern offset by the obvious pleasure in her expression. The flush hasn't left her face, nor cooled from where it spread down her throat. "Because I don't think I want you to stop looking at me."
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His fingers likewise skim across her skin, not so much in patterns than pathways, mapping the natural lines made by bone and muscle, her curves, all slow and light and lazy. Like he is indulging in the thing that looking naturally pulls him towards, which is to touch. He wonders if that's something she welcomes outside a bedroom as well.
He wonders a lot of things that will be fun to find out.
He lifts his hand, the backs of his knuckles easing down her jaw, admiring the flush of her skin, the subtle look of a mouth well-kissed.
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"I don't want to move," she admits, the dip of humor in her voice betraying that this is the kind of statement that's both true and untrue by turns. She does want more, except that: "This feels good."
Not a means to an end, but a comfortable exchange of contact, enjoyable in it's own right. His hands are very good on her skin. Her fingers have migrated to his bicep, marking out the shape of muscle there as she watches him looking at her.
That is good too. Derrica is not often interested in being admired, but she likes Loxley's expression when he studies her.
dwrp don't oppress me with your notif shenanigans
Still—
Humour has the corners of his eyes crease, and he says, "I do like watching you move," a confession, but there's no physical push to change anything up—at least, not forcefully. The trail of his fingertips shifts lower, knuckles brushing down the centre of her abdomen, over the scarring there, and then further down, touching that warm juncture of her thighs at the same moment he leans in to kiss her.
"And listening to you sigh and gasp," he says, and with a smile audible in his voice, "and tell me what you want."
betrayal from dreamwidth
Then, just gently, there is a nip of teeth. More pressure than bite, shifting to a smile as she draws back. His hands are allowed to hold their place as she sets her palms at his shoulders and asked, "And if I want you to sit up against the headboard?"
A query that, once spoken, Derrica thinks better of. What are the exact limitations of what Loxley's bed will be able to withstand?
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Loxley seems confident, anyway. There's a list forwards, like the temptation had been to go with her when nipped, but pausing at her answer. "Then I'd say I like that just as well." The bedframe complains only slightly ominously (you get used to it, maybe) as he pushes himself up to sit, carelessly pushing bedthings out of the way as he settles his back against the board.
Fixes his hair, while he has a second, just a quick swoop of long fingers past the blunt connections of horns and skull. Likely this is the only twitch towards self-consciousness he's shown, or will, comfortable with all his clothing on the floor, the relaxed stretch of his posture.
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Derrica sits up on her heels first alongside Loxley, then mirrors his movement by sweeping the mass of her hair back from her face. A few bits of stray jewelry have yet to be removed, and it might mean tangling later, if she doesn't pull them out after they finish. But she doesn't care to stop for that now.
And then she reclaims her space, closes the distance between them to return to his lap. She touches his face first, retraces the drag of his hand through his hair, while she settles her weight over his thighs, reaches down to take him in hand as she kisses him, tugs lightly at the curls over his nape.
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His arms move around her, his hands come up to bury themselves in her hair, a clutch designed to stimulate rather than pull. He smiles a little into the kiss to imagine how many of those she's been with before have been unable to keep themselves from that action alone, like the shining glimmers of metal in those waves are more than enough encouragement.
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There is some temptation to draw this out. Just as there had been temptation to stay tangled side by side, or to have let him wind her up a second time.
A question, posed so softly against his mouth: "How long could I touch you like before it was too much?"
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The headboard creaks as he leans back rather than curling up into her kiss. Still extremely easy to reconnect in that way, his hands still in her hair, hers in his, but he can look at her with blur.
"Depends," finally. "You're not in a hurry, are you?"
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Something said like a promise or a proposal, her voice dipping honeyed over all night.
Except she doesn't want to take all night for this. The slow slide and twist of her hand continues on, no break in the rhythm, but the shift of her weight over his thighs as she slides forward by degrees is telling.
"Would you like that?" is a softer question. Not so specifically about the act in question, but a quieter, prompting thing.
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Between them, the air feels close and warm, and his skin hot. There'd been a sketch of a smile at her first answer, distracted. And then her softer question, and his hands squeeze her, needful, not quite conscious. The next twist of her hand gets a noise out of him, quiet and broken off, and the slight push of her thighs under her, knees raising an inch as tension strings through him.
"Yes," he says. No line, this time. Something luxurious in this pace, yes, but also something risky, vulnerable, in allowing him to be driven to a point in the midst of this all.
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And here is something else of note: There is a way of this in which no one shares anything vulnerable. But they're trading something between them. Is the noise Loxley makes akin to how Derrica had shuddered apart over him? Maybe.
Or maybe not. They've only just begun this exercise, after all.
The yes is all there is for some time. It's permissive, so Derrica obliges him without hesitation. She leans in to kiss him, open-mouthed and firm, as her hand draws up and down in smooth, repetitive motions. Her chest meets his as she crowds in against him, hand in his hair tightening and loosening by turns.
"What else would you like?" comes in a murmur, breaking the exchange of gasping breaths between them. Derrica asks this directly against his mouth in an almost-kiss before her lips move farther, find the high point of his throat to kiss there as she touches him, as her thighs flex against the grip of his palms.
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"Oh, you know," he sighs out. "Everything."
His hips push up a fraction beneath her against her hand, and for all this talk of all night, he feels like he's teetering on some form of cusp, and has been this whole time. He turns his head to sort of nuzzle a kiss into her hair. "I would like you," he says, quieter, husky but direct. "I would like to fuck you, Derrica, and for you to have me, anyway you like--"
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