( numerous layers are involved in creating the effect and appearance of madame de cedoux, out on the town; she is shedding them, now, on the floor of his locked office, impatiently pulling her arm loose a bodice so she can push his coat and his waistcoat from his shoulders— )
I am rarely in favour of the Enchanter's robes, but I am presently feeling very warm towards them,
( as flint presents somewhat more of a challenge. to undress, at least. )
[He laughs, a low pleased sound, and for a moment - he's loosening another tie, a deft turn to slip the lace free -, considers offering her no assistance whatsoever. She will sort it. He's confident.
But he is avid, and it is easier to just take the moment of not touching her to wrestle free of the layers she's done half the work of already. But after, his hands go to her half bared shoulders rather than returning to what fastening he can identify from before her. He steers her around by them, driving her before him toward the adjacent door. Besides, there is a series of buttons back here that he can open as they go.]
I'll see what can be done to simplify for the next time.
( the last layer above her chemise—blousy and sheer and meant for married women and mistresses of which she is arguably both—gapes, loosened, and she catches it against herself with one hand, the other finding the door to his private quarters as she studiously does not allow herself to consider the desk they pass by in the process.
he has said next time, and she doesn't dislike the presumption.
in the doorway of his bedroom she sheds her petticoats, the corset binding her small waist smaller, and her chemise hangs loose and long over her gartered stockings; the light cutting through the gallows' narrow windows from the moon and the dim glow of the city remaining awake silhouettes her prettily, and it was probably not expressly for his particular benefit that these things are all she's left wearing so much as a holdover of home, where smallclothes fashionable in thedas were not commonplace. she stitches her pretty novelties, but she wears them only when it strikes her as practical to do so.
[The room is not plain - it would be difficult for such a place to be bearable in the winter if it were -, but even now it isn't terribly particular. They are the quarters of a man who is accustomed to a swung cot and a series of stern windows being the extent to which he is expected to make a home, and the specifics of the office (with its carefully arranged desk, and kept hearth, and its miniature war table stacked with maps and chart books and every finer instrument required to wage remote wars) are left at the door.
But there is something about her in it which makes the room more appealing. Standing just inside, shy of the waves of her discarded petticoats, he studies the lines of her visible through the thin fabric with the benefit of more than a hand's span of distance between them.
(He is also undoing his belt, picking the knife out of it, and dumping the whole affair thoughtlessly into some convenient chair. His rings come next, a series of them stripped from either hand as he looks at her. He is wearing more ornamentation than she is.)]
( at the side of his bed, she removes not garters, not stockings and not chemise but the jet locket hanging beneath her clavicle that had stitched them together visually so as to ensure that it is very likely young lately-of-cumberland will be thinking of this very scene later tonight, alone in his own bed. she curls her fingers around it, a brief press of some sentiment, before setting it down on his side-table.
she listens to the clatter and muted thuds of the assortment of things that put together the striking image he cuts as she loosens and frees pins so carefully placed by a likely maid earlier, setting them beside her locket, methodical. blonde hair falls in curls and kinked tresses toward her waist, improbably riotous in attempting to hold the shapes its been pressed into for hours, softening her stern lines in a way that seems almost more intimate than the pert curve of backside implied beneath breathy fabric.
she sets a knee on the edge of his bed, leaning there, half-turning to observe him. sits, upon consideration, and she was never that kind of queen but there is an element of it to the way she seems perfectly content to watch him shed his pirate-skin for her obvious gratification.
it is not the expression of a woman who might say something like, I never thought—. it is very much the expression of a woman who did, and at length. )
[She watches at him, and he studies her - dropping rings into his pocket, then working one boot off after another. Her hair is all silver in the moonlight, she and her chemise are pale in the shadow of the room, and he is a dark shape in the doorway against the warmer glow of the office with its banked embers still living at the edge of the broad hearth.
A lit reed is fetched from the dying fire here in this room's smaller fireplace, a series of candles meticulously from it. It is easier to see her by - more gold than shade; maybe next time will be by daylight. Tonight he brings the light with him to set on the bedside table.
He is still in the process of undressing when he slides in between her knees, freeing the laces of his trousers with one hand and working his shirt free of the waistband with the other.]
You should show me how it works after this. --How you learned Tevene.
I might warn you to have a care, ( she says, lightly, her fingertips skidding up the outside of his thighs and then snagging more firmly in that waistband, drawing him nearer to her as she parts her knees to make space for him, sits up straighter, the hem of her chemise riding higher— ) did I think that Riftwatch would require a forgery of your signature be very convincing to make mischief.
( she will absolutely be able to convincingly forge his signature afterwards, but likewise she is probably right that someone only giving it the old college try might make almost as much trouble.
conversationally, as she bats one of his hands out of her way to take over the undoing of his trousers, ) My husband taught me the theory of the spell; rather incidentally in dictating it to me that it might be recorded. In Lamorre, it once was treason of the highest order. That has passed, but, ( she presses a kiss, almost incongruously chaste, to the strip of bare skin she finds between loosened shirt and undone trousers. ) This, now, would be punishable by death.
( they were undressing, but she bites his hip as she slides her hand beneath the undone laces. )
( the faint exhalation of air—against his skin, her free hand sliding lazily up his abdomen, exploratory—might have been a laugh, if it had been allowed. she says, )
I don't miss it. ( and then, tilting her head, ) Shall I? ( which is very polite and has the sense of being a continuation of a most satisfying thought she does not mean to immediately share. )
[Yes, says the faint press of his hip into her. But the real reply is his hand all bangled from where the sun has beaten the shadow of his jewelry into it setting at briefly at her cheek, then sliding up into the pin-irregular twists of her pale, fine hair.]
( james flint is not a boy of eighteen to swing due north at a sly glance from beneath lashes or even, necessarily, the testing press of teeth around the stud in his ear. there are any number of purely practical reasons why she might have posed to him a question that has, in truth, no wrong answers—
but from the particular way that she smiles up at him in the gold light of just enough candles, he has given a good answer for more reasons than the obvious. permission secured, she does not rush herself; rather she takes a moment, hitching herself further up onto the bed and then rising onto her knees, taking a moment to appreciate the picture of him before her. the better part of his clothes and his boots littering the room with her own, the marks of his adornments, the casual debauchery of his open trousers. she looks a little as if she is committing it to memory, before she tucks her hair behind her ear and drags her teeth down his side,
her husband had not cared for this, much. had not cared for anything, in fact, in which petrana might have held the upper hand in a way he could see; increasingly, as they grew alongside and apart from one another, preferred not to be at his too-analytical wife's mercy. there is pleasure in giving—generously—but so too is there pleasure in the sense that pleasure is hers to give.
that they are, in a sense, still negotiating. that they do so as equals. she had once thought it—gentlemanly, his restraint. treating her as his wife and not a whore. and then avys had said, what's demeaning about having your teeth to his cock? and she had rather rethought the whole of it.
mostly, when she slides tongue along the underside of flint's, she is thinking that this is a promising development in their partnership. )
[There is certainly a suggestion of give in the lines of how he responds to the scrape of her teeth, and the sudden wet heat of her tongue; his fingers not fully easy in her hair and the twitch of muscle under her hand at his middle are like the sound supple wood makes as it's eagerly bent to form. No, he isn't a boy, but he has been considering how warm her is and the shape of her under (and tight around) his hands for the better part of the evening now, nipping interlude on the dance floor included, and he isn't a stone either.
It's a promising development for the rest of the night, in any case. There is something candid in this - which one might be willing to mistake for standard when it comes to a woman's mouth at a man's cock, but isn't -, how she is as intent on this as after any other thing while they'd sat across one another at his desk.
(It's going to be difficult to sit there again without thinking of Madame de Cedoux on her knees in her chemise and silk stockings, but he's never known that to be a barrier to good work.)]
( with one hand splayed at his hip and the other beneath her mouth, there is a confidence to her approach that presumably speaks to enchanter julius's present quality of life; if she was once out of practise, she is not any longer and she watches him not from beneath her lashes but almost uncomfortably frankly for someone presently hollowing out her cheeks and relaxing the back of her throat to swallow around him.
observing and responding to the minutest shift of him. paying heed to the way that he breathes and moves his weight and his fingers in her loose, soft hair; the muscles in his abdomen where her fingertips splay out from his hip. there is nothing that she does that she doesn't approach so methodically, and so determined to excel—
it is one thing to merely get one's end away. it is another entirely to ensure that it is difficult to look at her mouth and not remember. )
[Captain Flint is a sharp man; this is probably the kinder thing said in Forces, and in his ship, and by any person who has been beaten down by the effort of conversing. He is difficult to manage. He is difficult to not be trampled by. He is difficult to negotiate any point with. He is, simply, difficult.
But he is evidently not difficult to parse like this. If she is looking for something to observe, there is plenty to examine. The unrepentant shift of his fingers, how he presses up under her hand at his hip are matters of course, but there is something in the shape of him that goes lower and more heated under the point of her study - not just willing to be looked at, but aroused by the fixture of her attention. Twitching in anticipation of being done with this, following her into the bed and pressing his mouth between her thighs to watch in what direction she moves from it.]
( the thought of simply continuing is a tempting one. more than that: of bringing him off and eluding his grasp, leaving her teethmarks behind in his hip for him to think about—that is very, very tempting. there is a part of her that likes the idea almost enough, and it is that part that files it away for later. another time, since for now they're both letting presumption stand that there will be other times.
the part of her that has pressed her thighs tighter and tighter together as she swirls her tongue around the tip of his cock isn't prepared to be that patient, tonight. there's a wet pop when she drags her mouth off of him, rising up on her knees with one hand still lazily working him, lips reddened before she draws him down to her mouth.
there is a different tenor to this kiss than the laughing newness of them pressed together in the carriage. )
[It is the hungry precursor to gathering up the thin fabric of her chemise, drawing it up in folds, his fingertips callous rough at her bared sides. When he pulls back from her mouth, it's for the sole purpose of stripping it from her.
It's treated with all the care his shirt didn't warrant - folded with a patience belied by every other part of him including how he sounds when he says,]
Lie back.
[He'd like to see what she looks like there while he removes her garters and stockings.]
( the process of undressing her necessitates letting go of him, which she does only reluctantly and with a head-tilted pause following his instruction that she obeys a beat later, her fingertips sliding down his skin and lifting away as she eases back onto his bed, sweeping her hair out from beneath her shoulders and drawing her knees up, together, a lazy sway. in the glow of candlelight, thin silver lines score into her hips, her abdomen, her breasts; smaller than they look as if they'll be, the way corsetry hoists them beneath her chin, but softer than the smoothness of her elsewhere would have suggested, too. a petite hour-glass, whippet-thin shadowed to suggest she might not always have been.
her toes curl in her stockings against the bedding beneath her, and she watches him less inscrutably than she has over his desk. curiosity, affection, and frank want mingled with the same coolly, calmly analytical air she seems unable to not apply to everything.
he is her sole focus. the halo of her pale hair around her is angelic; the teeth in her lip and the look in her eye, less so. )
[It's the look that's of the most immediate interest to him. The rest is-- a novelty. She is so pale and thin, delicate in a way that is unfamiliar (that should be incongruous to her flush mouth, but isn't). He could put her where he liked if he wanted to, and the impulse is unfamiliar enough that he doesn't know what to do with it but study the lines of her.
(And if there is a spot of his examination which briefly takes the shape of what she must look like with her Enchanter, then it's a blank space he purposefully doesn't consider long enough to bring the details into focus.)
Instead the chemise, folded and neat, is set aside. He sets a knee on the edge of the bed and works free her last ribbons. Slides his fingers under one stocking and peels it from her.]
I might scratch you, [his whiskered cheek rough against some bared strip of skin before he moves to her second stocking.]
( her foot lifts, obliging, as he rolls the stocking off the end of it; she exhales toward the ceiling at the scrape of beard on her skin, and it is different than it had felt against her mouth and her cheeks. intriguing, more than it's anything. she presents him with her other foot, the slight gap between her knees enough to catch the gleam of dampness in darker blonde curls.
beneath her thigh when she lifts her knee just so, there is an untidy row of four fading bruises where flint's own fingers might fit, were he to try. )
I suppose, ( with some arch, understated humor, ) there is only one way of knowing of a certainty.
( and she has frankly been thinking of it since she kissed him in the carriage. )
[The specificity of those bruises is-- a fact tucked elsewhere, like finding a note written in the margins of a book he's enjoying. He doesn't linger over them - he has his own study to do -, but there is something informative in them anyway. Right now it suggests some future angle to press her to. Later, he might find himself considering the hand that made her do it before him.
He pushes her knees open. There is something workmanlike in his hands and impatient about the press of his mouth when it reaches the soft inside of her thigh. His teeth find her there, a hard nip at sensitive skin to feel if she jumps, but there's no low huff of breath or teasing kiss to follow and no forgive me press of tongue to ease the sting. Instead, Flint simply settles there between her legs and devotes himself to her directly.]
( she could have and might have opened them for him—much as she had, or had suggested in milder form, upon his lap on the road down from hightown—but she enjoys the wait, and the briskness of his hands setting to it, and the sharp bite of his teeth that has the foot she was adjusting beside him suddenly a heel dug into his back and her hips rising, which is like making her jump. the angle of it opens her to him, her knee over his shoulder, and feels more like meeting him in kind than simply spreading her thighs and casting a wrist up to her forehead.
her hand finds the headboard behind her, instead, pulling the line of her taut and giving her something against which to brace. the contrast of his beard scraping against soft, wet flesh and the soft, wet heat out of his mouth is something she would find difficult to describe later—her vocabulary feels clumsy for it, and in bed she has a habit of directness.
directly, then, a hint of impatience that she has tamped down since that carriage ride: )
Put your fingers inside me.
( his wandering hands had been of great interest to her, at her garter and nestled at the top of her thigh. )
[Maybe next time, he will refuse her the first time she tells him - until she either asks or demands while he grins somewhere high against her thigh. But he can think of no reason not to follow an order tonight. The taste of her is so full on his tongue, and they are meant to be playing a game where he is hers.
So he sets one hand to feel the rise of her hip and applies himself at her direction, two fingers through all her wet heat before pushing relentlessly into her. His growl of satisfaction against her open cunt is a low, thick sound.]
( the push of his fingers is the curve of her back, the rise of her ribs as she breathes in deeply, blinking away momentary impulse to give that growl surrender. her toes curl, knees rising high either side of him and then falling open and not crowding his shoulders any longer, one foot churning bedding and the other still pressed against his skin, feeling muscle shift beneath her.
his beard prickles where the silk skin of her inner thighs meets the high curve of her backside and the obscene wetness of her renders his rough fingers a heady friction, different to the callused drag on her skin elsewhere. she is cataloging sensations, and straining in the midst of them, exhaling that deep breath she hadn't noticed holding explosively.
she feels delicate—fine-boned, breakable, malleable under stronger hands—but she does not move as if she is, no tremor of awareness, only her fine, ink-stained fingers curling around the back of his neck and pressing her nails in as if aggravated to find no hair she can pull. )
[He doesn't treat her like she is delicate, like she is her small waist and slim thighs and her golden hair in its lovely twisting curtain spread across the bed. Because if she had looked at him, his examination is felt - the sharp sound of her breath hanging in the air like something he could touch were his hands not occupied, the curving line of her body, and the set of her heel as encouraging as the dig of her fingernails -, and all of it seems sweet in his ready mouth as he sinks his fingers fully into her.
Slowly at first. Just to feel how her body opens to him while he hums against her. But then, with a last lathe of his tongue, he draws back to set his rough cheek (her slick in his beard) against her thigh and to shift his weight so he can begin to drive into her properly - so he can see how she takes his fingers, and raise his eyes to watch when he grows more rough with her.
If she wants his hands, she can have them. He can think of less pleasant ways to occupy them.]
( when he looks up to her, she does not look fragile. a sheen of sweat focuses her sharply in the light, an only slightly duller gleam than the shine of her wet on his beard; her fingers busy, too, the hand that is not cupped around the nape of his neck cupped instead sliding up and down the the side of her abdomen, beneath her breast and higher to roll between thumb and forefinger the nipple pebbled in the cooler air away from the heat of him between her thighs. restless, insistent touches in pursuit of the same thing he is driving her towards, tense either side of and all around him.
and she is watching him, too, eyes lidded but not given to forgetting where she is or with whom. that it is him, particularly, sprawled in his own bed between her legs and who will remember when he is holding a pen above some requisition of hers to be signed or not the way her cunt felt tightening around the same fingers. it seems fair when she has imagined them there, watching him sign his name and considering what it might be, to have the whole of his attention for a time.
she holds his eyes until she can't, her head tipping backwards suddenly and her breath coming in pants that heave with all the promise of the tightly laced bodices she taps her quill pen against, some afternoons, deep in thought. )
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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I am rarely in favour of the Enchanter's robes, but I am presently feeling very warm towards them,
( as flint presents somewhat more of a challenge. to undress, at least. )
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But he is avid, and it is easier to just take the moment of not touching her to wrestle free of the layers she's done half the work of already. But after, his hands go to her half bared shoulders rather than returning to what fastening he can identify from before her. He steers her around by them, driving her before him toward the adjacent door. Besides, there is a series of buttons back here that he can open as they go.]
I'll see what can be done to simplify for the next time.
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he has said next time, and she doesn't dislike the presumption.
in the doorway of his bedroom she sheds her petticoats, the corset binding her small waist smaller, and her chemise hangs loose and long over her gartered stockings; the light cutting through the gallows' narrow windows from the moon and the dim glow of the city remaining awake silhouettes her prettily, and it was probably not expressly for his particular benefit that these things are all she's left wearing so much as a holdover of home, where smallclothes fashionable in thedas were not commonplace. she stitches her pretty novelties, but she wears them only when it strikes her as practical to do so.
it had seemed unnecessary. even moreso, now. )
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But there is something about her in it which makes the room more appealing. Standing just inside, shy of the waves of her discarded petticoats, he studies the lines of her visible through the thin fabric with the benefit of more than a hand's span of distance between them.
(He is also undoing his belt, picking the knife out of it, and dumping the whole affair thoughtlessly into some convenient chair. His rings come next, a series of them stripped from either hand as he looks at her. He is wearing more ornamentation than she is.)]
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she listens to the clatter and muted thuds of the assortment of things that put together the striking image he cuts as she loosens and frees pins so carefully placed by a likely maid earlier, setting them beside her locket, methodical. blonde hair falls in curls and kinked tresses toward her waist, improbably riotous in attempting to hold the shapes its been pressed into for hours, softening her stern lines in a way that seems almost more intimate than the pert curve of backside implied beneath breathy fabric.
she sets a knee on the edge of his bed, leaning there, half-turning to observe him. sits, upon consideration, and she was never that kind of queen but there is an element of it to the way she seems perfectly content to watch him shed his pirate-skin for her obvious gratification.
it is not the expression of a woman who might say something like, I never thought—. it is very much the expression of a woman who did, and at length. )
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A lit reed is fetched from the dying fire here in this room's smaller fireplace, a series of candles meticulously from it. It is easier to see her by - more gold than shade; maybe next time will be by daylight. Tonight he brings the light with him to set on the bedside table.
He is still in the process of undressing when he slides in between her knees, freeing the laces of his trousers with one hand and working his shirt free of the waistband with the other.]
You should show me how it works after this. --How you learned Tevene.
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( she will absolutely be able to convincingly forge his signature afterwards, but likewise she is probably right that someone only giving it the old college try might make almost as much trouble.
conversationally, as she bats one of his hands out of her way to take over the undoing of his trousers, ) My husband taught me the theory of the spell; rather incidentally in dictating it to me that it might be recorded. In Lamorre, it once was treason of the highest order. That has passed, but, ( she presses a kiss, almost incongruously chaste, to the strip of bare skin she finds between loosened shirt and undone trousers. ) This, now, would be punishable by death.
( they were undressing, but she bites his hip as she slides her hand beneath the undone laces. )
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The place you came from sounds-- [her hand is very warm] unreasonably dreary.
[This before he sheds his shirt, dumping it unceremoniously anywhere else.]
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I don't miss it. ( and then, tilting her head, ) Shall I? ( which is very polite and has the sense of being a continuation of a most satisfying thought she does not mean to immediately share. )
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All right.
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but from the particular way that she smiles up at him in the gold light of just enough candles, he has given a good answer for more reasons than the obvious. permission secured, she does not rush herself; rather she takes a moment, hitching herself further up onto the bed and then rising onto her knees, taking a moment to appreciate the picture of him before her. the better part of his clothes and his boots littering the room with her own, the marks of his adornments, the casual debauchery of his open trousers. she looks a little as if she is committing it to memory, before she tucks her hair behind her ear and drags her teeth down his side,
her husband had not cared for this, much. had not cared for anything, in fact, in which petrana might have held the upper hand in a way he could see; increasingly, as they grew alongside and apart from one another, preferred not to be at his too-analytical wife's mercy. there is pleasure in giving—generously—but so too is there pleasure in the sense that pleasure is hers to give.
that they are, in a sense, still negotiating. that they do so as equals. she had once thought it—gentlemanly, his restraint. treating her as his wife and not a whore. and then avys had said, what's demeaning about having your teeth to his cock? and she had rather rethought the whole of it.
mostly, when she slides tongue along the underside of flint's, she is thinking that this is a promising development in their partnership. )
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It's a promising development for the rest of the night, in any case. There is something candid in this - which one might be willing to mistake for standard when it comes to a woman's mouth at a man's cock, but isn't -, how she is as intent on this as after any other thing while they'd sat across one another at his desk.
(It's going to be difficult to sit there again without thinking of Madame de Cedoux on her knees in her chemise and silk stockings, but he's never known that to be a barrier to good work.)]
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observing and responding to the minutest shift of him. paying heed to the way that he breathes and moves his weight and his fingers in her loose, soft hair; the muscles in his abdomen where her fingertips splay out from his hip. there is nothing that she does that she doesn't approach so methodically, and so determined to excel—
it is one thing to merely get one's end away. it is another entirely to ensure that it is difficult to look at her mouth and not remember. )
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But he is evidently not difficult to parse like this. If she is looking for something to observe, there is plenty to examine. The unrepentant shift of his fingers, how he presses up under her hand at his hip are matters of course, but there is something in the shape of him that goes lower and more heated under the point of her study - not just willing to be looked at, but aroused by the fixture of her attention. Twitching in anticipation of being done with this, following her into the bed and pressing his mouth between her thighs to watch in what direction she moves from it.]
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the part of her that has pressed her thighs tighter and tighter together as she swirls her tongue around the tip of his cock isn't prepared to be that patient, tonight. there's a wet pop when she drags her mouth off of him, rising up on her knees with one hand still lazily working him, lips reddened before she draws him down to her mouth.
there is a different tenor to this kiss than the laughing newness of them pressed together in the carriage. )
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It's treated with all the care his shirt didn't warrant - folded with a patience belied by every other part of him including how he sounds when he says,]
Lie back.
[He'd like to see what she looks like there while he removes her garters and stockings.]
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her toes curl in her stockings against the bedding beneath her, and she watches him less inscrutably than she has over his desk. curiosity, affection, and frank want mingled with the same coolly, calmly analytical air she seems unable to not apply to everything.
he is her sole focus. the halo of her pale hair around her is angelic; the teeth in her lip and the look in her eye, less so. )
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(And if there is a spot of his examination which briefly takes the shape of what she must look like with her Enchanter, then it's a blank space he purposefully doesn't consider long enough to bring the details into focus.)
Instead the chemise, folded and neat, is set aside. He sets a knee on the edge of the bed and works free her last ribbons. Slides his fingers under one stocking and peels it from her.]
I might scratch you, [his whiskered cheek rough against some bared strip of skin before he moves to her second stocking.]
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beneath her thigh when she lifts her knee just so, there is an untidy row of four fading bruises where flint's own fingers might fit, were he to try. )
I suppose, ( with some arch, understated humor, ) there is only one way of knowing of a certainty.
( and she has frankly been thinking of it since she kissed him in the carriage. )
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He pushes her knees open. There is something workmanlike in his hands and impatient about the press of his mouth when it reaches the soft inside of her thigh. His teeth find her there, a hard nip at sensitive skin to feel if she jumps, but there's no low huff of breath or teasing kiss to follow and no forgive me press of tongue to ease the sting. Instead, Flint simply settles there between her legs and devotes himself to her directly.]
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her hand finds the headboard behind her, instead, pulling the line of her taut and giving her something against which to brace. the contrast of his beard scraping against soft, wet flesh and the soft, wet heat out of his mouth is something she would find difficult to describe later—her vocabulary feels clumsy for it, and in bed she has a habit of directness.
directly, then, a hint of impatience that she has tamped down since that carriage ride: )
Put your fingers inside me.
( his wandering hands had been of great interest to her, at her garter and nestled at the top of her thigh. )
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So he sets one hand to feel the rise of her hip and applies himself at her direction, two fingers through all her wet heat before pushing relentlessly into her. His growl of satisfaction against her open cunt is a low, thick sound.]
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his beard prickles where the silk skin of her inner thighs meets the high curve of her backside and the obscene wetness of her renders his rough fingers a heady friction, different to the callused drag on her skin elsewhere. she is cataloging sensations, and straining in the midst of them, exhaling that deep breath she hadn't noticed holding explosively.
she feels delicate—fine-boned, breakable, malleable under stronger hands—but she does not move as if she is, no tremor of awareness, only her fine, ink-stained fingers curling around the back of his neck and pressing her nails in as if aggravated to find no hair she can pull. )
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Slowly at first. Just to feel how her body opens to him while he hums against her. But then, with a last lathe of his tongue, he draws back to set his rough cheek (her slick in his beard) against her thigh and to shift his weight so he can begin to drive into her properly - so he can see how she takes his fingers, and raise his eyes to watch when he grows more rough with her.
If she wants his hands, she can have them. He can think of less pleasant ways to occupy them.]
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and she is watching him, too, eyes lidded but not given to forgetting where she is or with whom. that it is him, particularly, sprawled in his own bed between her legs and who will remember when he is holding a pen above some requisition of hers to be signed or not the way her cunt felt tightening around the same fingers. it seems fair when she has imagined them there, watching him sign his name and considering what it might be, to have the whole of his attention for a time.
she holds his eyes until she can't, her head tipping backwards suddenly and her breath coming in pants that heave with all the promise of the tightly laced bodices she taps her quill pen against, some afternoons, deep in thought. )
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