( regardless of how long it's been, there were some men intent to learn the language of a woman's body and others merely content to use it. it's every bit evident that he's the former, coming back to him like muscle memory with the way that thumb circles knowingly about her clit — a drive that ran parallel with her own, too fixed on the idea of making another break apart at the sake of their hands (mouth, tongue, teeth, hips) to possibly let her off without toppling over that edge, too.
there's a praise, humming thick from his tongue alongside another digit to wondrously stretch her apart and she wonders if he could possibly know what those three little words did to her — how they seized every bit of her attention, left her hanging mercilessly to his every whim and touch. he has her, and she can feel that tension slowly, slowly begin to give in favor of the fire he's stoking betwixt her hips, running it's humid tendrils of smoke around her abdomen, up to her chest, holding to her throat. as if to support the narrative there's the bracket of metal at her jaw, like he's encouraging her to keep craned just there for him to mouth — an open canvas, throat shifting as a fluttery keen offers something like gratitude to his undivided attentions.
she can feel the way those purplish hues yearn to the surface of her skin, how he draws them with the biting-suckle of a broad tongue. that palm grazes down to tease at her chest and she can still feel it there, pressing at the crook of her jaw, and his words ring through her again: good. like that. her chest hiccups with a ragged exhale.
he's asking her for words and so often than not it's all she has, but all she can find right now is explicits — his name, a lace of curses, all easily missed as pants if he didn't listen close enough. something tells her he does, gaze fluttering open and mindlessly fixating at some point on the darkened ceiling. )
It's good, just, ( she wants to tell him, but she may be able to guide him there herself, dipping her hand between sweat-sheen frames to clasp over the back of his palm. her eyes close again, and for a moment she's back in her bed, curtains stirring with the sound of dripping pipes in the background as her own fingers worked her to completion — only he's here with her, and he's asking her to reveal all of those little sacred spots. her answer comes by insisting his fingers deeper with her touch, and all it takes is a cant of her hips, and a telling whimper punctures the room. you found me. )
Right there— ( fingernails card up his forearm, grip there, as if she's unwilling to let him lose it now that he's there, right up against that sweet spot. she's finding purchase in his hair again, upper half yawning up towards him while her hips remain grounded, fighting herself to keep them still lest he loses that treasured spot. )
no subject
there's a praise, humming thick from his tongue alongside another digit to wondrously stretch her apart and she wonders if he could possibly know what those three little words did to her — how they seized every bit of her attention, left her hanging mercilessly to his every whim and touch. he has her, and she can feel that tension slowly, slowly begin to give in favor of the fire he's stoking betwixt her hips, running it's humid tendrils of smoke around her abdomen, up to her chest, holding to her throat. as if to support the narrative there's the bracket of metal at her jaw, like he's encouraging her to keep craned just there for him to mouth — an open canvas, throat shifting as a fluttery keen offers something like gratitude to his undivided attentions.
she can feel the way those purplish hues yearn to the surface of her skin, how he draws them with the biting-suckle of a broad tongue. that palm grazes down to tease at her chest and she can still feel it there, pressing at the crook of her jaw, and his words ring through her again: good. like that. her chest hiccups with a ragged exhale.
he's asking her for words and so often than not it's all she has, but all she can find right now is explicits — his name, a lace of curses, all easily missed as pants if he didn't listen close enough. something tells her he does, gaze fluttering open and mindlessly fixating at some point on the darkened ceiling. )
It's good, just, ( she wants to tell him, but she may be able to guide him there herself, dipping her hand between sweat-sheen frames to clasp over the back of his palm. her eyes close again, and for a moment she's back in her bed, curtains stirring with the sound of dripping pipes in the background as her own fingers worked her to completion — only he's here with her, and he's asking her to reveal all of those little sacred spots. her answer comes by insisting his fingers deeper with her touch, and all it takes is a cant of her hips, and a telling whimper punctures the room. you found me. )
Right there— ( fingernails card up his forearm, grip there, as if she's unwilling to let him lose it now that he's there, right up against that sweet spot. she's finding purchase in his hair again, upper half yawning up towards him while her hips remain grounded, fighting herself to keep them still lest he loses that treasured spot. )
Right there... don't stop.