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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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.