Date: 2015-07-17 02:01 am (UTC)
mortemscintilla: ∅ Money don't grow on trees (Hei - Eyes Of The Dead)
[ He'd like to think his reluctance is really about savoring the moment, with keeping a languorous pace to this impulsive encounter, refusing to rush something that contains in itself so much delicate volatility. But he knows it is much more about his bedrock selfishness. The slower he permits himself to be, the more he'll be able to hoard all the big and little details about her afterwards. The heat of her body is like a homecoming -- but he'll be homeless again the moment she's gotten what she wants, and walked out the door. ]

[ At the idea, a curl of misery flexes in his belly. ]

[ Shaking it off, he gives himself with a starved concentration to the kiss. She guides his hand between her legs: the message is blatant. But he doesn't get down to business in his usual point-and-shoot manner. His fingers ghost over her mons, stirring the curls, then slip lower, tip of his index finger finding the point of her clit, barely touching. There is a bone-deep shiver at stroking her this way, where she is hottest and softest; his hand itches to dip down, to sink into that familiar welling slickness of her entrance. ]

[ He doesn't. Instead, his fingertip traces slippery whorls across her clitoral shaft. Mouth nuzzling hers, barely-there smooches, before he gnaws her jaw, tongues down her throat. Her breasts keep captivating his attention. He nuzzle the hard dark nipples, from one to the next and back again, his right hand weighing them gently, mindless of the dull needles of discomfort stabbing through the bones. His physical therapist always suggests he exercise with stress balls. In Hei's opinion, this is ten times better. ]
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