(no subject)
One thing Faye Valentine knows is that she's a hell of a woman. She's heard it said before, and she doesn't really care what the reasons for it have been. She is exactly who she is, and she has no apologies to make to anyone.
Every action, every word, every decision she's ever made has been for herself alone.
When she dabs on the same cinnamon scent that Gren complimented her on the day before, that's solely for herself, too.
It's not her fault she liked the attention. If it gets him to linger over her wrists or bury his nose in the hair behind her ears or seek out the base of her throat with his mouth, it's well worth it.
She could say Gren's the most indulgent lover she's ever had and it would be true, but it's not like he's got much competition in that department. Her first was as old as she was at the time -- seventeen -- and she remembers it being as much of an educational experience as anything else. They were both young and fumbling and tittered with laughter that became more breathy than nervous, and there wasn't much indulgent about it.
She was a different person then.
Witney kissed her a few times, but they only ever did anything really juicy in the occasional daydream. In her mind, he was attentive and sweet and knew exactly how to make her knees weak without ever needing to be told. He never would've lived up to the fantasy.
She was a different person then, too.
About eight months after she left Mars for the first time, about the time she started dressing like she does now, she let herself have more than just an idle thought or two. It wasn't planned, rehearsed, or expected. She wasn't all that attracted to him: his hair was dull brown and long enough to curl under his ears, his nose was a little longer than she liked, his eyebrows were too thick. He beat her at a card game before she was as difficult to beat as she is now -- he cheated, she's sure -- but before she did her famous disappearing act in the dark early hours of the next morning, she found his wallet and helped herself to what she'd lost at cards and then some.
Plus his cigarettes.
She'd just been frustrated. With everything. People complain about going a year or two without sex or relationships, but she'd slept for over fifty.
She was a different person even then, but she was closer to being who she is now.
Gren is definitely the most indulgent.
He's also the nicest to look at, and the mornings she wakes up beside him, especially the mornings she wakes up before him, her eyes tend to roam over every inch of him visible between the sheet that clings jealously and the dark hair that drapes like a curtain.
Until she feels the weight of his eyes, and then she stops as if she'd never started.
Mornings are when she feels the most like being curious, being honest, asking questions. Sometimes she does and sometimes she doesn't, and she's asked a few brazen questions of him before but never what are we doing? or why do you like me so much? or how did we get here? or anything like that.
Besides, she really knows exactly what they're doing -- she likes it, too -- and she knows part of the reason he likes her and she knows -- intimately -- every step that's led them to playing poker for each other's clothes, sharing glasses of champagne, spending nights in each other's rooms.
Sometimes she thinks what she told him about it being inevitable because they're both pretty isn't at all far from the truth.
And she never thinks she minds.
Every action, every word, every decision she's ever made has been for herself alone.
When she dabs on the same cinnamon scent that Gren complimented her on the day before, that's solely for herself, too.
It's not her fault she liked the attention. If it gets him to linger over her wrists or bury his nose in the hair behind her ears or seek out the base of her throat with his mouth, it's well worth it.
She could say Gren's the most indulgent lover she's ever had and it would be true, but it's not like he's got much competition in that department. Her first was as old as she was at the time -- seventeen -- and she remembers it being as much of an educational experience as anything else. They were both young and fumbling and tittered with laughter that became more breathy than nervous, and there wasn't much indulgent about it.
She was a different person then.
Witney kissed her a few times, but they only ever did anything really juicy in the occasional daydream. In her mind, he was attentive and sweet and knew exactly how to make her knees weak without ever needing to be told. He never would've lived up to the fantasy.
She was a different person then, too.
About eight months after she left Mars for the first time, about the time she started dressing like she does now, she let herself have more than just an idle thought or two. It wasn't planned, rehearsed, or expected. She wasn't all that attracted to him: his hair was dull brown and long enough to curl under his ears, his nose was a little longer than she liked, his eyebrows were too thick. He beat her at a card game before she was as difficult to beat as she is now -- he cheated, she's sure -- but before she did her famous disappearing act in the dark early hours of the next morning, she found his wallet and helped herself to what she'd lost at cards and then some.
Plus his cigarettes.
She'd just been frustrated. With everything. People complain about going a year or two without sex or relationships, but she'd slept for over fifty.
She was a different person even then, but she was closer to being who she is now.
Gren is definitely the most indulgent.
He's also the nicest to look at, and the mornings she wakes up beside him, especially the mornings she wakes up before him, her eyes tend to roam over every inch of him visible between the sheet that clings jealously and the dark hair that drapes like a curtain.
Until she feels the weight of his eyes, and then she stops as if she'd never started.
Mornings are when she feels the most like being curious, being honest, asking questions. Sometimes she does and sometimes she doesn't, and she's asked a few brazen questions of him before but never what are we doing? or why do you like me so much? or how did we get here? or anything like that.
Besides, she really knows exactly what they're doing -- she likes it, too -- and she knows part of the reason he likes her and she knows -- intimately -- every step that's led them to playing poker for each other's clothes, sharing glasses of champagne, spending nights in each other's rooms.
Sometimes she thinks what she told him about it being inevitable because they're both pretty isn't at all far from the truth.
And she never thinks she minds.