( it's one thing that invigorates her: if there's anyone that knows what she can handle, what she can take, it's him. how many nights had they wandered into one another when sleep couldn't find them, just to take out their frustrations training? she'd told him since she was a little girl not to hold back, that she wasn't fragile—nothing has changed.
she savors the way it feels, those fingers carding down her throat, keeps thoughts from wandering as to how it might feel to have his palm wrapped around it, steadying her with a hold there. she burns for him, aches, and she's not shy to show it, giving a slow drag of teeth along her lower lip as he explores, threatens to leave the upper half of that robe slipping free entirely if it weren't for that bow tied in place, his torso pressed to hers. )
Mm. It's a start.
( a wicked tone as touch draws between the valley of her breasts, responding by threading fingers up his nape and into blond locks, giving a sharp tug—she knew full and well what he could handle, too. ankles link behind his back, using the hold as leverage to pull his hips to hers, a makeshift rut, nose stumbling against his.
he says he's not good with words, but she likes hearing him—especially like this. when she speaks again it's low, a hushed tone for only them to hear. )
no subject
she savors the way it feels, those fingers carding down her throat, keeps thoughts from wandering as to how it might feel to have his palm wrapped around it, steadying her with a hold there. she burns for him, aches, and she's not shy to show it, giving a slow drag of teeth along her lower lip as he explores, threatens to leave the upper half of that robe slipping free entirely if it weren't for that bow tied in place, his torso pressed to hers. )
Mm. It's a start.
( a wicked tone as touch draws between the valley of her breasts, responding by threading fingers up his nape and into blond locks, giving a sharp tug—she knew full and well what he could handle, too. ankles link behind his back, using the hold as leverage to pull his hips to hers, a makeshift rut, nose stumbling against his.
he says he's not good with words, but she likes hearing him—especially like this. when she speaks again it's low, a hushed tone for only them to hear. )
Tell me what you want.