[ The bite to his ear, the raking nails, earn her an exhale, fast and rushed like the wind's been jerked out of him. His skin feels hyper-receptive, as if it's gathering electricity in the air and wiring it in jolts to his brain. But he doesn't look undone; his half-smile is a dark one, tipped crooked with promise. While it's tempting to meet her squirming with force, to push her to the floor, strip the rest of her clothes off and ride her until she shakes, that's not his angle tonight. ]
[ Not yet. ]
[ Instead he dabs his finger, wet with her, across her lips. Swallows any protest she might make on a hungry kiss. He's comfortable enough on the floorboards -- he always is -- an offshoot of sleeping on futons and tatami mats in Tokyo and threadbare sleeping bags in South America. But sometimes furniture is a perk for these encounters. Gathering her up, he carries her toward the bedroom, but only makes it as far as the couch. He tips her into it, a little roughly, dropping to his knees before her. ]
[ He ignores the impulse to tear her jeans open like they're made of paper, to let the rending cloth sting her thighs. Unties her boots instead, calm and efficient, letting them drop heavily on the floor, before his fingers spider up to tug at her waistband, to skin the jeans down her legs, the panties in place. He leans in, close enough to breathe, hot and slow, on what is just under that thin cloth -- just a susurration of contact more than anything. ]
⊕ action
[ Not yet. ]
[ Instead he dabs his finger, wet with her, across her lips. Swallows any protest she might make on a hungry kiss. He's comfortable enough on the floorboards -- he always is -- an offshoot of sleeping on futons and tatami mats in Tokyo and threadbare sleeping bags in South America. But sometimes furniture is a perk for these encounters. Gathering her up, he carries her toward the bedroom, but only makes it as far as the couch. He tips her into it, a little roughly, dropping to his knees before her. ]
[ He ignores the impulse to tear her jeans open like they're made of paper, to let the rending cloth sting her thighs. Unties her boots instead, calm and efficient, letting them drop heavily on the floor, before his fingers spider up to tug at her waistband, to skin the jeans down her legs, the panties in place. He leans in, close enough to breathe, hot and slow, on what is just under that thin cloth -- just a susurration of contact more than anything. ]