He moves as bid, following through that motion as if he hadn't hesitated. It affords them better intimacy, lets him sink against her and the bed, into the embrace of her arms around his shoulders, her legs tangled with his. It's nice, adding pressure and weight to their shared warmth.
Loxley kisses her mouth, her jaw and throat, half distracted by all the rest as he reaches down to touch her and touch himself, to guide himself into a gentle point of contact, to give her what she asks. He sighs, a sleep-rough sound, the hand braced against the bedding beside her shoulder gathering up loose cotton into a fist as he slides into her, new tension of a good sort hardening across his shoulders, down his back.
Lifts his head, kisses her again, dirtier and less precise this time.
A tingling ache is spreading from her collarbone, faint discomfort that finds no purchase as Loxley's body covers her, as he acquiesces to all her requests with a lovely sound. Derrica inhales at the stretch and slide of sensation, thighs flexing tighter around his hips. Her whole body arches to meet him, every muscled pulled briefly taut before the tension ebbs away and Derrica settles too, gripping his shoulders to hold him close as they kiss.
There is a reason Derrica so rarely chooses a position like this, gives herself over in such a way. It's difficult, impossible, to find someone like Loxley, who won't see it as invitation to pin her down in other ways too.
Her fingers slide into Loxley's hair again, nails scraping along his scalp as she makes soft, punched-out sounds into his mouth. The fingers of her opposite hand flex against Loxley's shoulder, hanging on. Not urging him on or demanding, just—
"Like this," is a murmur, so brief that it barely interrupts their kiss. "That's so good."
He always runs a little warm, hot under her hands. A fast metabolism, maybe, a latent energy. Maybe its his infernal blood, the same kind that gives him a little proof against flame, still running in his veins even while his outer shape has converted to something less devilish.
Or just this, and her, the gentle pace he sets that is no less firm and thorough. Loxley's head tips along with the scrape of her nails, soft inarticulate sounds given at each little thing, variation and sensation. A low, warm shiver at her praise murmured so softly, more tactile than anything else.
"Like this," he agrees.
The angle of an emerging sun is drawing a still-hazy knife of sunlight through the angle of his window. Even through thick glass, sturdy walls, the city slowly waking up is a distant background noise. Louder, though, the creaking of the bed, his shallow breathing, the sounds she makes. "I love hearing you," he murmurs, thoughtlessly, between kisses. "I love how you sound, like this."
While she hadn't asked in so many words, Loxley does give her what she wants: the warm weight of him over her, and this slow, intimate rock of their bodies. Her fingers tighten and loosen and tighten again in his hair. There's no reason to curtail her reactions, bite back moans or steady her breath. Her fingers draw down his spine, then back up, nails biting into his shoulder as he moves into her.
"Loxley," she breathes, tender over the syllables. It's the only thing that materializes, his name carrying deeper sentiments along with it. He's so warm. And Derrica is never going to get tired of the way his entire body reacts to praise, the way he reacts to her.
There's a long beat of quiet, gasping breaths. Derrica's heel braced against the mattress, thighs flexing at his hips, as her hand leaves his hair to cup his cheek. Her thumb slips along the bristle of beard, sets at the corner of his mouth as she says again, lower, "Loxley, please."
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charmoffensive) wrote2019-10-19 02:48 pm
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Loxley kisses her mouth, her jaw and throat, half distracted by all the rest as he reaches down to touch her and touch himself, to guide himself into a gentle point of contact, to give her what she asks. He sighs, a sleep-rough sound, the hand braced against the bedding beside her shoulder gathering up loose cotton into a fist as he slides into her, new tension of a good sort hardening across his shoulders, down his back.
Lifts his head, kisses her again, dirtier and less precise this time.
no subject
There is a reason Derrica so rarely chooses a position like this, gives herself over in such a way. It's difficult, impossible, to find someone like Loxley, who won't see it as invitation to pin her down in other ways too.
Her fingers slide into Loxley's hair again, nails scraping along his scalp as she makes soft, punched-out sounds into his mouth. The fingers of her opposite hand flex against Loxley's shoulder, hanging on. Not urging him on or demanding, just—
"Like this," is a murmur, so brief that it barely interrupts their kiss. "That's so good."
no subject
Or just this, and her, the gentle pace he sets that is no less firm and thorough. Loxley's head tips along with the scrape of her nails, soft inarticulate sounds given at each little thing, variation and sensation. A low, warm shiver at her praise murmured so softly, more tactile than anything else.
"Like this," he agrees.
The angle of an emerging sun is drawing a still-hazy knife of sunlight through the angle of his window. Even through thick glass, sturdy walls, the city slowly waking up is a distant background noise. Louder, though, the creaking of the bed, his shallow breathing, the sounds she makes. "I love hearing you," he murmurs, thoughtlessly, between kisses. "I love how you sound, like this."
Implicit, there: enjoying being the cause of it.
no subject
"Loxley," she breathes, tender over the syllables. It's the only thing that materializes, his name carrying deeper sentiments along with it. He's so warm. And Derrica is never going to get tired of the way his entire body reacts to praise, the way he reacts to her.
There's a long beat of quiet, gasping breaths. Derrica's heel braced against the mattress, thighs flexing at his hips, as her hand leaves his hair to cup his cheek. Her thumb slips along the bristle of beard, sets at the corner of his mouth as she says again, lower, "Loxley, please."
Please stay, is what remains unspoken.