[ The conundrum, he thinks, is that there is only one of him โ that he cannot kiss every part of her at once, that he cannot properly watch her reactions to his ministrations without also being the one to prompt them. It's a sort of greed; a desire to devour her every movement, every breath, to hoard away a perfect memory. To wit, when her legs close around him and his fingers curl into a fist in his hair, his reaction is a huff of breath, half-laugh and half-groan. It's an inconvenience โ even a pain โ that he welcomes, what with the sensation intertwined as it is with her expression of pleasure.
The squeeze of her hand is met with his own, equal parts a response and an anchoring as the lick of his tongue becomes more insistent, seeking her taste, the soft bud of sensitive nerves that sets off each new buck of her hips. When his eyes meet hers again, the look contained within is wanton โ hungry, in a way he'd thought himself incapable of โ drinking in the blush of her features, the heaviness of her own gaze. His own need feels somehow trivial in comparison; what he wants is to see her come undone, to fully tear apart her sense of self-control for the sake of succumbing to desire, to him.
So, for once, there's no clever retort to the whisper that passes her lips, just a flutter of his lashes in response. It undoes him piece by piece โ the way she looks at him, his hunger matched; the timbre of her voice like honey in his ears; and, of course, the simple fact of what she chooses to say. She knows, already, of his weakness for praise โ a kind of neediness built out of insecurity, buried deep, and the desire to be wanted, adored โ but there's a simple distinction between what he's heard over and over again (what he already knows, what he's used as a weapon) and what's meaningful, what's more about what they choose to do for each other.
It sets afire the ache already present in the pit of his stomach, nervous trills of arousal running through his frame as his own hips square against the grass, a buzzing in his head that's as much to do with what he wants to say: I want you to come, or more to the point, I want you to come for me. And all of that can be expressed just as well through gesture, through action, through his maintained focus on her. You take such good care of me, she says โ a sentiment worth proving true, to the last moment.
By contrast, for him, it's near impossible to fall back into old habits. There's no sense of absence for him, here, nothing about this that is perfunctory or put on. In the moment, he only vaguely recognizes that, instead caught up in the thrill of mutual want. That's the thing, isn't it: she makes him feelโ alive. ]
no subject
The squeeze of her hand is met with his own, equal parts a response and an anchoring as the lick of his tongue becomes more insistent, seeking her taste, the soft bud of sensitive nerves that sets off each new buck of her hips. When his eyes meet hers again, the look contained within is wanton โ hungry, in a way he'd thought himself incapable of โ drinking in the blush of her features, the heaviness of her own gaze. His own need feels somehow trivial in comparison; what he wants is to see her come undone, to fully tear apart her sense of self-control for the sake of succumbing to desire, to him.
So, for once, there's no clever retort to the whisper that passes her lips, just a flutter of his lashes in response. It undoes him piece by piece โ the way she looks at him, his hunger matched; the timbre of her voice like honey in his ears; and, of course, the simple fact of what she chooses to say. She knows, already, of his weakness for praise โ a kind of neediness built out of insecurity, buried deep, and the desire to be wanted, adored โ but there's a simple distinction between what he's heard over and over again (what he already knows, what he's used as a weapon) and what's meaningful, what's more about what they choose to do for each other.
It sets afire the ache already present in the pit of his stomach, nervous trills of arousal running through his frame as his own hips square against the grass, a buzzing in his head that's as much to do with what he wants to say: I want you to come, or more to the point, I want you to come for me. And all of that can be expressed just as well through gesture, through action, through his maintained focus on her. You take such good care of me, she says โ a sentiment worth proving true, to the last moment.
By contrast, for him, it's near impossible to fall back into old habits. There's no sense of absence for him, here, nothing about this that is perfunctory or put on. In the moment, he only vaguely recognizes that, instead caught up in the thrill of mutual want. That's the thing, isn't it: she makes him feelโ alive. ]