theleadingman | avalon: inbox

[Even as she reaches to grab at the hem of her skirt, his own fingers move fleetly down the length of her thigh, his touch brushing against hers. Modesty has no place here, though he can respect her desire to hold onto it a few moments longer— this, he knows, is still new for her, still brings with it a certain degree of uncertainty, though he hopes for the both of them, it will become something as natural as it is thrilling, the very idea of sharing oneself with another.]

You like it when I look at you this way.

[He smirks— she'd told him as much, but he follows his previous kiss with another, this one a bit softer, relenting slightly. While he is certain of what they both want, he knows the situation remains complex, muddied by emotions despite their strength.

For but a moment, his expression grows a bit more somber, though he makes no move to pull away from her, keeping his weight on his hand as he lets his forehead come to rest against hers.]

You needn't apologize for that now. You had your reasons. I understand them better now— and you— and if you wish for nothing more to happen tonight, then I will listen.

[But he's positive that's not the case. Not when they'd both been searching for reasons to come to this very room.]

But I promise you this— in this moment, I want nothing more than to be with you.

[He's right. Although such dark and heavy, intense looks leave her fearing ability to hold onto her heart, she is livened by it. She can't remember feeling so alive before he stumbled into her life ever gracefully. The more alive she feels, the more she fears losing that feeling. But that's why things are as they are. Because there isn't a guarantee of the following day.

Neither of them have any way of knowing what may await them in the future.

Visibly she softens and she carefully takes the hand he's taunted her own with. His forehead rests to hers gently and she clings onto his words in the only way she knows how to. They hold desire and understanding, two things that don't seem as if they should be compatible together and yet they sound so natural coming from him. If she'd had any issues with such implications, she would have sent him home. Or perhaps she would have sentenced him back to the couch.

That he's here now as he is, that she's already reaching up for him with her other hand, to lightly curl touch along the plane of his back, it's all indicative otherwise. She wants him to stay.]

You already said you were staying. [She begins somewhat quietly, drawing in a deep breath as she presses the tip of her nose into his cheek.] I should make it worth your while.

[He exhales slowly, eyes sliding closed as a smile tugs at the corners of his lips once more. Her fingers move against his bared back, now hot to the touch, the way she leans into him alone all the answer he needs— but it still makes something in him soar to hear her say it, to hear her tell him in her own words that she wants him, as well.

He laughs again, soft and low, and the hand at her thigh slips past her own and beneath her hem, moving smoothly towards her hips, the heat of his fingertips and the comparatively cool press of his rings seemingly at odds with one another.]

Oh, I intend to make it worth both our whiles.

[Lest she think for even a moment that he's about to prove himself a selfish sort of pleasure-seeker— pirate or no.

He's quick, then, to slip his fingers beneath the waist of her underthings, leaving her dress itself untouched as he pulls her into an increasingly needful kiss, gently pulling fabric down over the curve of her hips as he parts his lips against hers. Last time, they had taken their sweet time in moving forward— this time around, he has a different approach in mind.]

[He speaks and his words flutter into an ear, lingering in her head for several long moments, but she's mostly distracted by the travel of his hand and the contrast of heat and cold atop her bare skin. She doesn't need a lot of guesses to figure out where he's going either. The haste makes her think of those more impassioned moments in books and it dawns on her that she's not had a plan of action for a situation like this one.

He touches his lips to hers and it's too late for her to pull the soft moan to the back of her throat. He tugs soft pastel fabric over pale skin and to better assist, she carefully uses one foot as leverage to help lift her hips for him without dislodging him. Perhaps she has a little haste in her as well, all things considered. This is what happens when she keeps them apart the way she has. Yet it also occurs to her that she is simply content to have his hands on her. In any fashion. Feed her once and she's simply forever starving afterwards.

After a playful nip into his lower lip, brief and fleeting, she murmurs up against his mouth, vibration and heat resting atop his skin.]

...Are you afraid I'm going somewhere...?

[He smiles into her very words, his hands smoothly sliding that fabric over her hips and thighs as she shifts to aid him in his efforts, letting it come to rest just above her knees— he'll have to take care of it in full, momentarily, but he's not quite ready to pull away from her yet, and claims another kiss following her question, feeling himself quickly growing heady, the room seeming far warmer now than it had been when he'd been awaiting her arrival.]

Not especially. Too hasty, am I?

[Though there's a light, teasing note to his question, it is still genuine— her comfort matters, after all, though he doesn't think she'll feel particularly rushed once he starts in earnest. He pulls back until he's mostly upright, resting on his knees and offering her a knowing smirk as he slides her underthings downwards and lightly takes hold of one ankle after the other to free her, tossing them aside while leaving her the relative modesty of her sundress for the time being.]

A bit eager, I'll admit.

[Who wouldn't be?]

[He is not the only one turned by the situation or by their shared closed proximity. As someone who tends to keep others at a certain kind of distance (though usually emotionally, as she considers it remotely), letting him near has been little more than an earth-shattering experience. They have so many other things in common that she wagers it's something of the same for him. Hard to be without something that they've both come to cherish. It's not necessarily about the physicality. It's just simply that intimacy. They could do nothing at all and she would enjoy simply being near him, talking about deeper things that seem as if they mean so little in the moment, but genuinely hold a great deal of weight.]

...No. Of course not.

[It falls out of her in a quiet breath with even quieter words once he frees her from another kiss that makes her feel as if she grows less and less in control of whatever resolve she's attempted to build up against him.

Her gaze watches him draw aside her things with a startling grace. And reverence. Somehow, he's always incredibly relevant of her. Very aware of her own sensitivities, though she wouldn't dare to acknowledge that they're there at all. Eventually it returns to his face, the little curl in his mouth that is both boyish and charming and she manages to utter out a soft laugh.]

Eager? [She asks, taking just a moment to scrape her teeth over her bottom lip as she tries not to smile too hard.] For something you already know? I'm not sure I'm that special.

'Already know?'

[One corner of his mouth curls yet higher as he echoes her, and he shakes his head as he smoothly nudges her knees apart so that he can insinuate himself between them, still kneeling as he lets them come to rest against either of his hips, dropping his hands to rest against her own waist, fingers curling into the pale fabric of her dress.]

I promise you, it's not that simple.

[Something he thinks may begin to set in, should they have more opportunities like these in the future— it is no less thrilling even once the first time has passed, especially when there's attachment involved, or so he's coming to learn very quickly in his own right.]

You're special to me. Isn't that enough?

[I wouldn't know.

It's much easier to admit that to herself than it would be to admit it to him. In spite of this road she and Balthier are in the midst of travelling, it's so much more than just the physicality of their relationship or how many unknowns that comes packaged with. It's the entire portrait. The idea that she could be important in that way to someone else. It's not a case of 'just' friends or 'just' family. There's no fair comparison for any of that. It's simply different.

She hangs onto his words with an attentiveness that she's not even prepared for, distracted for some moments by the way he shifts and adjusts her. He moves with promise. Something that's more than idle threat, if she even wants to put it that way. Makes it difficult to focus on what he's saying, but she puts all of her effort into doing precisely that, even with the way she's reaching up with aching fingertips to press her touch against his chest.]

I wasn't saying that it wasn't. [She replies quietly.] I guess... I just don't always understand. I can't see things the way you do. Not always. I can't see the me you see either.

[There's certainly room for philosophy there— does anyone ever quite see themselves the way others do, for better or for worse? Decidedly not, he thinks; even those brimming with confidence have the potential to be their own harshest critics. Aerith thinks herself to be quite ordinary, and to him, it seems perfectly plain that she is not.

He doesn't know that he can ever explain it to her satisfaction, but there's every chance that he can show her.

He gently catches her by her wrist to further guide her touch against his chest, eyes closing halfway as he leans into it; his thumb brushes against the back of her hand and his smile softens to become something fond and indulgent, even as his gaze has grown intense with wanting.]

There is not explanation enough— but given time, you may understand better.

[And even if only a little, they do have time. One hand moves down the length of her thigh, over the hem of her dress to gently nudge it into falling towadrs her waist, and he bends his head to press a single, chaste kiss against the inside of her knee, lingering.]

For now, you don't need to see things as I do. You need only relax.

[His weight presses into her hands and just that careful curl of his touch about her wrist sends a subtle little shudder up along the small of her back. From there, it spreads up along her and stretches out over her shoulders, leaving her, in part, pleasantly numb. For those moments, at any rate. Aerith's fingertips curl in ever slight against his chest, scar and muscle alike.

How is it possible for her to be anymore enamoured with him than she already is? He's the very portrait of attraction, housing an expression that harbours so many different, overwhelming sentiments. She doubts she could properly separate them if she genuinely tried, much less to identify them.

Still listening through the undeniable fuzzy that sentimentality and want can sometimes wrap his words in, she nods slowly. He draws touch along her thigh and though muscle instinctively flexes beneath his reverence, purely anticipation as it ever is with him, her gaze softens. The flush draped over her skin deepens.]

Every time you say that...

['Relax.' It's almost like some kind of code word that he uses before he does something that he likely shouldn't be doing. Or something they likely shouldn't be doing. Although in retrospect, considering the way things are at present, there's probably no such thing as should or its counterpart. There is do or don't.

His lips touch to the inner of her knee and for just a moment, her pulse jumps. Perhaps a moment and then some.]

...Balthier...

[It's only a kiss, but it feels so much more weighted. Her hands tighten along him before she presses more properly, perhaps more hungry for him than she's really willing to admit. A desert parched that can only be sated by him, though she'd never say it like that. Whatever it is, whatever that pull, that attraction, that desire to repeat moments where she cannot determine heartbeat from heartbeat, Aerith feels it quite clearly. It's a thing she's never asked for. A thing she's never expected. Yet he dangles it right before her.

...How can she possibly resist him?]

[He laughs, a low sound that rolls across her skin as he presses another chaste kiss just beneath the first, giving a slight shake of his head against her thigh.]

Every time I say that, something very good is about to happen.

[That, he knows, is not precisely what she would have said, had she finished that thought— but he's more than happy to take the liberty of finishing it for her. Aerith is the sort who puts her entire heart and being into taking care of others, and she is resistant to allowing such behavior to be turned back on her. At least in this way, he knows he's in an excellent position to take care of her, instead— though he has the feeling that as she gains confidence, she very well may give him a run for his gil.

He exhales slowly, beginning to steadily trail kisses along the length of her inner thigh, moving downwards inch by inch as he eases himself down off of his knees, gently beginning her leg over his shoulder as each kiss against heated flesh lingers just a bit longer than the last.]

I do so love to hear you say my name that way.

[She can do that as much as she likes. His words come murmured against her skin, paired with the smiling curve of his lips, his voice taking on that sharp, heated edge that comes with heady lust.]

I have been aching to do this for what feels like ages.

[That's not how I'd put that.

It's a thought that lingers in the back of her mind, though she doesn't seem to have the ability to say as much. Not when she watches the way he touches his lips to her skin with a surprising amount of reverence. One after another, a steady trail, each leaving a subtle throb of her pulse. He lingers, taking his time, and each time he does, the nerves that settle into the small of her back grow by the moment.

A delightful anxiety? It's something like that.]

...It's embarrassing when you draw attention to it.

[Whether she means the way his name sometimes leaves her or the way he's so carefully nestled between her legs is up for debate, though it's likely she's referencing both.

She can only watch him for some moments as he carefully draws her leg carefully over his shoulder, coercing her to shift ever in slight. A hand glides over bedding and she gently clutches before she draws her gaze aside. Her other hand tangles in waves and light curls of chestnut brown. He doesn't make it easy for her to respond and she suspects that's part of the intention.]

You don't have to do things like that with me. I'm... just happy that you're here.

[Her words are hushed and quiet, restrained only by the worry of her bottom lip beneath the soft clutch of her teeth.]

Do things like what?

[State his desire for her so very plainly, or perhaps the physical act? Maybe even a bit of both. His breath is warm against her skin as he works his way downwards, his fingers trailing along the inside of her thigh in the wake of his lips as he settles in, giving her an excellent view of his head and shoulders and little else.]

Believe me, I am quite happy to be here, myself.

[He suspects that was never in doubt, but some things are always worth reminding. The softened edges of her words and the careful hitch in her breath make both anticipation and anxiety plain, and his gaze moves upwards to search her expression, the sight of her lip caught against teeth making his own pulse quicken.

He has missed her more than he can find the words to say, and in their time apart, he has thought of her like this countless times, thought of what they might do if they found themselves alone together again. Even now, when they've barely begun, he is reminded that none of that compares even remotely to the real thing.

He meets her with touch first, dexterous fingers gently parting her lower lips to find her warm and wanting; he is careful to start, the light press and stroke of his touch intended to make her want more, to chase some of that anxiety away. He shifts, leaning to press a kiss just below her bellybutton and where her skirt has come to pool against her waist.]

Alright, love?

[She refuses to answer him. At least with her voice. She suspects the darkening of her flush is likely answer enough. It's hard to listen to him praise her or speak so glowingly of her. Of how he desires her. Of how she's desirable to begin with. Those simply aren't things one says to Aerith.

Well. Unless that 'one' is Balthier, evidently.

She isn't ignorant enough to not know when he's assessing her in his reverent way. Of all things, he's always ensured that she's all right. That she remains well. That she isn't done with him or doesn't need him to stop. The weight of her anxiety, pleasant as it is, is almost painful. Not in a way that she can't endure it, but in a way that she's unfamiliar with. It's an anxiety born of positive things and experiences, but simply an anxiety all the same.

A little of it melts away at touch. She remembers that touch well enough and everything that it can coerce out of her. Balthier's touch is capable of unwinding her and drawing her to the point of pleading, which is, in retrospect no short of embarrassing. To her. She tries not to reflect on it too terribly much, but that's impossible. It's an appropriate distraction, along with the little flutter he births by simply touching lips atop her skin. His voice is that sensual, gentle, and understanding tone.

...She'll remember it for nights to come.]

...Mhm...

[Aerith nods slowly, stretching her fingers out against bedding with a deep breath. But she's always incredibly agreeable when he's situated in any fashion so sweetly between her legs. He could probably talk her into just about anything if he's acquainting himself with her so thoroughly.]

You always... want to ask me questions— [Her other hand pulls fingertips down the length of her neck.] —knowing I... It's unfair of you, Ffamran.

[Not quite gone enough to avoid using his given name.]

[The sound of his own name, his real name, sends a shiver through him, racing down the length of his spine, a shudder she'll see roll through his shoulders from her vantage point. He gives a playful nip at the inside of her thigh, a light scrape of teeth that's too careful to cause any real pain, followed by another smile that she'll undoubtedly be able to feel curl against her as he presses a kiss to that same spot to soothe it.]

Perhaps you'd prefer it if I stopped talking.

[Which, to be perfectly fair, is what his intention had been regardless. Rather than offer her any more of his bedroom banter, he dips downwards, his head disappearing between her legs as the familiar stroke of his fingers is replaced by something else entirely, soft heat taking the place of pressure as he parts her folds with his tongue, followed by the press of lips, his hand curling tightly against her thigh as he keeps one of her legs firmly over his shoulder.

If she doesn't want him to ask questions any longer, then very well— he's occupied.]

Ah!

[Just the sensation of his teeth just above sensitive skin causes her muscles to tense. It doesn't hurt. It's almost the opposite. The teasing of that nature leaving her unable to keep herself from shifting ever in slight. Anticipation, delight, desire, want. For all of her posturing, it's never been easy to act as if she's unmovable in his company. Balthier is capable of touching her in literal and proverbial ways.]

That's not—

[Her voice locks in her throat at the mere presence of heat. It's not just the heat. There is a saying—love rarely survives first contact—some romanticised notion that Aerith isn't fully certain she's understood prior to him. It's not the absence of love, but rather that one stage of love evolves over time with circumstance. It's very likely that from the beginning with Balthier, the first time he touched her in any capacity, she might have been destined to fall into these misadventures with him.

...If one believes in such concepts. Aerith must to some degree, even if not fully.

Breath catches in the slender column of her throat and it takes only the subtle press of his lips against velvet to extract a breathless whimper from her. Not long after, ignoring the darkening blush that falls over her skin, Aerith slowly draws her hands down her lean frame and eventually weaves her fingers into his short, well-kept hair.

She never meant he had to be quiet, but it seems he's not at all inclined to give her much of an opportunity to argue with him.]

[It may not have been what she meant, but it had been his intention all the same— there was a certain degree of satisfaction that came with bringing pleasure to one's partner in such a way, but more than that, he has longed to taste her since the very moment he'd pulled her into his lap back at his flat.

He exhales against her, his breath hot against soft velvet, and he responds to the hitch in her breath and that stirring whimper by tightening his grip on her thigh. His short hair is still long enough to grasp, and the tangle of her fingers and press of her nails send another pleasant shiver thought him; he moans and curls his tongue into her before nosing his way upwards to gently nudge against the swollen bud of her clit. He intends to lavish more attention there, in time, but as ever, he is cautious with her— patient as he can manage, but never for fear that she might be too delicate, only in the interest of not overwhelming her, not until she's ready for it.

That these experiences be nothing short of pleasurable, memorable, remains paramount among his priorities. His own pleasure is secondary.]

[It takes him so very little for her to tremble in his touch. His hold upon her thigh tightens and a ripple of pleasure crawls right up along her. It spreads into her toes and the lean frame of her body tenses for a few breaths. He's careful with her, still treating her as if she's something precious, even when he's indulging himself in the taste that lingers between her thighs. It'll take her ages, she's sure, to be so open to these kinds of exchanges, and yet Aerith suspects he'll be nothing but patient with her.

Until she breaks his patience. No one has infinite of that.

Her breath catches and she draws back a hand, just to stifle the soft moan he pulls from her so effortlessly. Her frame shifts against her bedding as inconspicuously as she can manage. It's not discomfort. It's desire for more. Is it right to enjoy that kind of attention? Is it fair for her to take pleasure in him doting on her? He would likely reassure her.

As he presses even the lightest attention against the throb of her arousal, Aerith shudders, tightening the grip of her slender fingers she kept twisted into his hair.]

[Reassure her he does, reading each shift and moan for what they are, a bid for something more, and for once, he does not pause to ask after her well-being, does not stop to question whether or not something is alright. He makes that decision on his own, furthering his attentions; he brings one hand up to lay flat against her belly, accompanied by the familiar kiss of metal from his rings, his thumb brushing against her wrist as she tugs at his hair.

That, he decides he rather likes— hardly a surprise, knowing his own general tastes as he does, but the fact that it is Aerith doing so makes it that much sweeter.

He pauses for breath, but never pulls away for long, redoubling his efforts when he resumes— his lips and tongue are both incredibly eager as he seeks to both taste and tease, to seek out which spots will draw the the sharpest reaction from her, his own desire coiling hotly within him as he finds himself intoxicated by her scent, the soft sound of her voice, that shudder that had rolled through her all the way down to her fingers.

She may not know how to handle his doting, but he'll not allow there to be any mistaking how he feels— he adores her, without question.]

[It takes precisely one little dusting of his thumb along her wrist for Aerith to take a moment to reassess what she means to do. If he didn't enjoy it, he'd simply tell her. Aerith knows at least that much.

He tests her discipline and each moment she catches herself attempting to draw her thighs together, she manages to keep herself from doing just such a thing. In a way, maybe the lack of their banter leaves her feeling more uncertain. Nervous. At least otherwise, she can laugh a bit about it all. In the present, the only thing she can focus on is the intense heat of his mouth and the ever-present throb of her heart.

It's near deafening, truly.

Her lean frame curves beneath his touch, the spread of his fingers atop her belly and she looses a breath she's likely held onto. It'd be all too easy to praise him, to tell him that she likes the feel of his hands upon her, that she does enjoy the sensation of his lips upon her. But somehow encouraging those from her is not an easy task to accomplish.

Aerith slides a hand over his, gently grasping it. The hand she's tangled in his hair, leaves affectionate touch against him. Nothing too hard. Nothing to hurt. Nothing to cause discomfort. Purely adoration. Devotion. The more romantic things that perhaps may not be compatible with such... exchanges. Although lust is a close accompaniment to romance. To have one is not to have the absence of the other.

These kinds of thoughts are too deep for someone like her to have.]

...Balthier...

[Because at least she can say that. In the soft, gentle way that she does, bleeding the affection that she otherwise doesn't have the courage to display.]

[The feel of her fingers against his own makes his heart threaten to leap into his throat; by some standards, it seems such a small thing, but even the smallest show of affection does much to heighten intimacy, sends sparks through him, and he lets out a soft moan against her as she speaks his name in that soft, sweet way of hers. He will never tire of that, nor will he tire of the tangle of her fingers in his hair, the close, warm press of her skin and the intoxicating scent of her.

Without raising his head to look, he turns his hand beneath hers, lifting it so that their fingers can entwine. He breaks again for breath, just long enough to drop another kiss against the inside of her thigh before he seeks out that bead where he knows she’ll feel the most pleasure and circles it with his tongue, his brow knit with the intensity of his focus. That feeling of desire coiling within him burns hotter, and even from where she lies, she’ll be able to see the way he subtly rolls his hips against the mattress to earn himself some small relief, still confined within his trousers.]

I’ve missed you.

[The words are hot and breathless against her, murmured between his concentrated efforts, and though he’s said them before, they take on something of a different meaning now as he attends to her with adoring lips and tongue. He knows full well he could finish her like this, and intends to if she’ll allow it, but it will hardly be the end of their evening together. While apart, he’s had plenty of time to entertain all sorts of thoughts he’d like to make reality, now that they have the chance.]

[A moan is such a simple, trivial little sound. Except in the throes of passion. Balthier hardly has to expend effort to encourage her breath to hitch in the slender column of her throat. She regains it when he gives her the opportunity to thread her fingers between his. It's such a romantic gesture. Another thing she's not expected in any such lingering of him behind closed doors. Not that the first time he took her to his bed wasn't romantic. It was. Frighteningly so. In fact it was so romantic that many of her concerns had been birthed there.

She still feels that uncertainty tugging along her insides. That every moment they grow closer is a more dangerous moment. A heavily-weighted one that will, at some point, all come crashing down. It will be worse for one of them, she suspects, unless they should, for one reason or another, be plucked from this world at the same time. There is a tint of guilt in there as well, for a multitude of reasons that Aerith can't possibly be comfortable diving into. Balthier silences a great deal of all of this, but bits and pieces continue to settle, as if they might never simply disappear.

"I've missed you."

His words come in between the soft doting he presses upon her most sensitive places. Ripples of pleasure scale up along her, leaving fingertips and toes tingling. The coil of pleasure that houses in the small of her back, tightly wound, plucked by his devotion and his affections. It rises, pushed to the same precipice that she can't see with eyes, but that she can feel perfectly with her every trembling inch.

And she has her own effect on him, though she would argue that she does so very little. If anything, it's that she doesn't want him staring at her overmuch. Doesn't want him to take her in. Doesn't want him to witness an Aerith at her most vulnerable. Already she feel weak in his presence. Already he knows that he is her greatest weakness the way things stand.

In an attempt to alleviate the growing pleasure that pulls its way up along the turns of her body, leave her breathless with teeth scraping over her bottom lip, she adjusts the way her thigh lingers over his shoulder. Her toes pinch and curl. Eyebrows knit together, betraying the splinters in her composure.]

You mean—

[She knows what he means. Well, she thinks she knows what he means, even if she can't quite put words to it.]

—That's... You shouldn't say that when you're...

[He can hear her fumble for words even as his focus narrows, and a throaty laugh escapes him— he considers offering her a moment of reprieve, and eases his attentions ever so slightly, letting his tongue lightly trace along her cleft before pressing another careful kiss against the apex.]

When I'm what?

[Even if she can't see it, she'll certainly be able to hear that self-satisfied smile of his. He knows better than to expect a real answer out of her; of course, he knows precisely what she means, and he lowers his chin to allow himself to nose gently against her clit, allowing her a few moments to regain herself should she so wish it before he returns in earnest.]

I mean exactly what I say.

[His gaze casts upwards; he cannot quite see her expression from his angle, but he can see the way she's turned and twisted, her sprawl against the mattress, the way her skirt is now fitfully bunched around her waist. He fully intends to get rid of that entirely before long, but there's something especially thrilling about not having been able to wait to fully undress.]

Too much, my dear?

[She won't answer him.
She can't.

Well. She very well could, but Aerith struggles with being able to express herself so openly. In situations like the present one, anyway. If they were talking about plants, she'd speak until she turned blue. In intimacy... Aerith still isn't entirely sure how... to have a graceful conversation regarding it. Of course, that's harder to do when Balthier so easily knocks the wind out of her.

As he's once said, however, if she can articulate herself, then he's probably not doing things the way he ought to. It's likely complimentary that he can make her thoughts spin the way he does to the point where she can't properly converse.

There's that pressure again. The subtle press his nose against her thrumming pulse. Aerith draws in a breath, not at all in a position where she can protest or argue with him maybe the way she'd like to. The hand she's left atop his tightens just a touch, and eventually she shakes her head.]

N-no. [She begins with some care, feeling the involuntary twitch of the muscles that line her abdomen. And she gets why. The thing about pleasure is that is it begins to pool up and accumulate, it doesn't just fade. The more he taunts her, teases her, plays upon her, acquaints himself with scent and feel, the more it draws her toward that desire.] ...Please don't stop.

[It's as close as she can get to asking him for more. Because that's what she genuinely wants. More.]

[It is more of an answer than he genuinely could have expected, and one that brings another smile to his lips— he'll never tire of hearing such things from her, of hearing her soft sighs and moans, and any difficulty she has in articulating herself, he'll absolutely take as a compliment of the highest order.

He acquiesces to her request without hesitation; attending to her with lips and tongue and sheer adoration, their fingers still tightly entwined. The scent of her is as maddening as the sound of her voice, the soft fall of her breath; he wants as much of her as she is willing to give him, but he forces himself to exercise patience, to narrow his focus as his own need attempts to nag at him.

He keeps his attention fixed on her, tongue lightly teasing against her pulse before he curls it into her once more, determined to bring her to the edge with this alone. She is breathtaking even when at her most vulnerable; there is something about the raw honesty of their situation that has his own abdomen tight with wanting, eager for more, and he moans against her as he continues to work her over with his lips, ever alert for any shift in her body, hitch in her breath that might signal he should change course— or offer a reprise.]

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