light and lace
i am apparently incapable of doing real work on my spring break, and can only conjure fluff (not to mention smut) instead. written for sm_monthly.
Title: Light and Lace
Theme: Fifteen
Genre: Romance
Version: AU
Rating: R
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Light and Lace
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Some men don’t like lingerie.
It’s something of an understatement, but Khaleid’s sense of humor has always veered toward subtle, anyway. Perhaps bordering on undetectable, like he wishes the protruding, stabby clasp of her bra was undetectable, wishes it didn’t etch defiantly hook-shaped indentations in his chest as they slept. Then again, if he’d bothered to strip her properly last night, if he’d fucked her as deliberately as he liked, not twisted her soaked thong out of the way and bent her over his mini-bar, maybe he wouldn’t be in this predicament.
Maybe “predicament” isn’t the right word, given the agreeable circumstances that led Khaleid here. Her cheek pressing against chill granite countertop, crystal tumblers taking shattering wing, slender fingers gripping a bottle of Haut-Brion ’87, the year she was born to make him insane. Still in that white-hot Herve rolled up jumping hips, still digging her Fendi’d heels into his Ferragamo’d toes (he supplies; she buys; he mispronounces). Some things flung off, kicked off, peeled off while the hours tear on - and as they take their pleasure again and again - wear on. The bra stays put, mysteriously, especially so because in the hierarchy of things, Khaleid generally thinks of himself as a tits man. She has a way of reorganizing his priorities. And she always makes him hurry, where he would take his time.
He shifts a bit, and the pinch at his chest eases, red marks fading. It’s pretty enough, Khaleid supposes. Satiny, the same shade as her skin; saturated, like peaches cut in half and left in the window. Doesn’t mean he gets why women do that, wear white maybe twice in twelve Facebook albums’ worth of black dresses, and buy a whole new set of flesh-colored lingerie to go with. Khaleid likes black better anyway, likes finding threads of old gold on her clothes like glittering veins in a mine.
Since when do I care what you like? She says that often enough, baby blues exultant when she fishes his wallet out of his pocket, scraps of lace with the tags on dangling from her arms. But then she says it and drops Aquafina and hummus in his briefcase so he doesn’t subsist solely on a diet of cooling coffee and kebabs from the halal cart by the lobby. Chick food, Khaleid states flatly when she calls to make sure he ate it. Um, your hair’s already white; let’s keep your arteries from aging too, don’t think I’m letting you go all fat and senile on me. But that’s a lie and they both know it, because Khaleid’s in better shape than she is, and hell, it’s her job to look good. Six feet and four inches of monolithic muscle, wasting away in front of your spreadsheets. Maybe I’ll let you put a couple of those inches to better use, if you come home early. Maybe I’ll do that, if you’re a good girl.
Since when am I a good girl, she taunts Khaleid, swaying and leaning just out of his reach. Her breasts pour over that damn bra, so nearly the same nude that if he squints it’s like she’s not wearing one (okay, not quite), it’s like she’s a statue cut in sandstone and come to life, quaking above him like golden earth splitting open. When she collapses on him, asleep nearly the moment she sticks her nose under his chin and sighs, pedicured toes curling happily against his shins, Khaleid dances his fingertips over her shoulderblades. He almost unclasps it, wanting her softness crushed to him without obstacles, without insterstices, but he doesn’t want to wake her, she’s got…
My flight is at nine-twenty-five, do you think I’ll be okay if I cab it? Six o'clock drenches the room in pale yellow heat, Blackberries drop frantic calls in humid subways, and she glides from Khaleid’s arms like a firefly disappearing into daylight. He props himself up on his elbows, watching her toss things into a duffel. Bikinis, flip-flops, a ridiculous hat. He’s guessing Malibu or Maldives.
Yeah, it’s international, Terminal Four, I think? He tells her to call the towncar, and she giggles. A banker and a model and a towncar; how 2007. Hedge fund, not bank. Suits, all of you.
Khaleid brushes his teeth and makes coffee while she showers, and is amused to see that she’s already dumped a bag of baby carrots on top of the files he’d brought home and completely ignored last night. Next to his cufflinks is a bottle of weirdly fiber-enriched green tea. He silently tosses the offending item into the garbage disposal. There is an outer boundary to chick food, and he’s just found it. Caffeine is okay. Caffeine laden with stealth diarrhea is not okay.
She steps out of the bathroom, rubbing her blonde head with a fluffy pink towel. He suppresses a growl upon seeing that she’s already dressed, albeit a touch disheveled. A smart little suit, and hose she’ll be sweltering in despite their sheerness. In fact, she already is, condensation pearling her face, unmade-up and young. Khaleid covers the room in a few long strides, and patches of July morning silhouette their mouths and tongues as they push at each other, not gentle, but not hurried either. This is how he’d do things, if he had his way, if he had time.
Khaleid’s palm slides between her hot thighs and lingers, and she moans a little around his lower lip. He tugs her snagged skirt down over her garters, hands dallying, straightening to his full height as he does so. This means that she finds herself staring at his sternum, and he finds her disturbingly adorable, until she slips on those pointy six-inchers and nearly dislocates his jaw with her newly elevated and very hard skull.
You almost look like you could be working for me. He cups her impossibly tight ass under that impossibly tighter skirt, hears a whimper rise in her throat before she hastily shoves him away. For you? Baby, I make your salary in three swimsuit spreads. Is that why La Perla keeps sending me thank you notes? A man should always buy a woman’s lingerie. Khaleid considers that particular gem of logic unbearably ironic, that he must assume the duty of buying things he’s only interested in utterly demolishing. She’s knotting that fall of sunshine into a chignon, all business, and she’ll be gone for a week, maybe more, and he’d been a total shit not to rip off her bra the night before, because who knew when he’d see those glorious tits again?
He picks up her duffel and inquires without really caring. What kind of shoot? Oh, um, Esquire is doing a burlesque-themed thing. Khaleid must look as blank as he feels, because she rolls her eyes. You really do live in your office, baby. But there’s a touch of trepidation in her voice when she tells him. Well, I haven’t exactly done one of these before. I mean. Swimsuits are basically the same thing. It’s kind of, uh, a lingerie shoot.
Some men do like lingerie. Many men really like Mina in lingerie. But Khaleid - and it’s something of an understatement - is not one of them.
…
…
…
…
…
Title: Light and Lace
Theme: Fifteen
Genre: Romance
Version: AU
Rating: R
…
Light and Lace
…
…
…
…
…
Some men don’t like lingerie.
It’s something of an understatement, but Khaleid’s sense of humor has always veered toward subtle, anyway. Perhaps bordering on undetectable, like he wishes the protruding, stabby clasp of her bra was undetectable, wishes it didn’t etch defiantly hook-shaped indentations in his chest as they slept. Then again, if he’d bothered to strip her properly last night, if he’d fucked her as deliberately as he liked, not twisted her soaked thong out of the way and bent her over his mini-bar, maybe he wouldn’t be in this predicament.
Maybe “predicament” isn’t the right word, given the agreeable circumstances that led Khaleid here. Her cheek pressing against chill granite countertop, crystal tumblers taking shattering wing, slender fingers gripping a bottle of Haut-Brion ’87, the year she was born to make him insane. Still in that white-hot Herve rolled up jumping hips, still digging her Fendi’d heels into his Ferragamo’d toes (he supplies; she buys; he mispronounces). Some things flung off, kicked off, peeled off while the hours tear on - and as they take their pleasure again and again - wear on. The bra stays put, mysteriously, especially so because in the hierarchy of things, Khaleid generally thinks of himself as a tits man. She has a way of reorganizing his priorities. And she always makes him hurry, where he would take his time.
He shifts a bit, and the pinch at his chest eases, red marks fading. It’s pretty enough, Khaleid supposes. Satiny, the same shade as her skin; saturated, like peaches cut in half and left in the window. Doesn’t mean he gets why women do that, wear white maybe twice in twelve Facebook albums’ worth of black dresses, and buy a whole new set of flesh-colored lingerie to go with. Khaleid likes black better anyway, likes finding threads of old gold on her clothes like glittering veins in a mine.
Since when do I care what you like? She says that often enough, baby blues exultant when she fishes his wallet out of his pocket, scraps of lace with the tags on dangling from her arms. But then she says it and drops Aquafina and hummus in his briefcase so he doesn’t subsist solely on a diet of cooling coffee and kebabs from the halal cart by the lobby. Chick food, Khaleid states flatly when she calls to make sure he ate it. Um, your hair’s already white; let’s keep your arteries from aging too, don’t think I’m letting you go all fat and senile on me. But that’s a lie and they both know it, because Khaleid’s in better shape than she is, and hell, it’s her job to look good. Six feet and four inches of monolithic muscle, wasting away in front of your spreadsheets. Maybe I’ll let you put a couple of those inches to better use, if you come home early. Maybe I’ll do that, if you’re a good girl.
Since when am I a good girl, she taunts Khaleid, swaying and leaning just out of his reach. Her breasts pour over that damn bra, so nearly the same nude that if he squints it’s like she’s not wearing one (okay, not quite), it’s like she’s a statue cut in sandstone and come to life, quaking above him like golden earth splitting open. When she collapses on him, asleep nearly the moment she sticks her nose under his chin and sighs, pedicured toes curling happily against his shins, Khaleid dances his fingertips over her shoulderblades. He almost unclasps it, wanting her softness crushed to him without obstacles, without insterstices, but he doesn’t want to wake her, she’s got…
My flight is at nine-twenty-five, do you think I’ll be okay if I cab it? Six o'clock drenches the room in pale yellow heat, Blackberries drop frantic calls in humid subways, and she glides from Khaleid’s arms like a firefly disappearing into daylight. He props himself up on his elbows, watching her toss things into a duffel. Bikinis, flip-flops, a ridiculous hat. He’s guessing Malibu or Maldives.
Yeah, it’s international, Terminal Four, I think? He tells her to call the towncar, and she giggles. A banker and a model and a towncar; how 2007. Hedge fund, not bank. Suits, all of you.
Khaleid brushes his teeth and makes coffee while she showers, and is amused to see that she’s already dumped a bag of baby carrots on top of the files he’d brought home and completely ignored last night. Next to his cufflinks is a bottle of weirdly fiber-enriched green tea. He silently tosses the offending item into the garbage disposal. There is an outer boundary to chick food, and he’s just found it. Caffeine is okay. Caffeine laden with stealth diarrhea is not okay.
She steps out of the bathroom, rubbing her blonde head with a fluffy pink towel. He suppresses a growl upon seeing that she’s already dressed, albeit a touch disheveled. A smart little suit, and hose she’ll be sweltering in despite their sheerness. In fact, she already is, condensation pearling her face, unmade-up and young. Khaleid covers the room in a few long strides, and patches of July morning silhouette their mouths and tongues as they push at each other, not gentle, but not hurried either. This is how he’d do things, if he had his way, if he had time.
Khaleid’s palm slides between her hot thighs and lingers, and she moans a little around his lower lip. He tugs her snagged skirt down over her garters, hands dallying, straightening to his full height as he does so. This means that she finds herself staring at his sternum, and he finds her disturbingly adorable, until she slips on those pointy six-inchers and nearly dislocates his jaw with her newly elevated and very hard skull.
You almost look like you could be working for me. He cups her impossibly tight ass under that impossibly tighter skirt, hears a whimper rise in her throat before she hastily shoves him away. For you? Baby, I make your salary in three swimsuit spreads. Is that why La Perla keeps sending me thank you notes? A man should always buy a woman’s lingerie. Khaleid considers that particular gem of logic unbearably ironic, that he must assume the duty of buying things he’s only interested in utterly demolishing. She’s knotting that fall of sunshine into a chignon, all business, and she’ll be gone for a week, maybe more, and he’d been a total shit not to rip off her bra the night before, because who knew when he’d see those glorious tits again?
He picks up her duffel and inquires without really caring. What kind of shoot? Oh, um, Esquire is doing a burlesque-themed thing. Khaleid must look as blank as he feels, because she rolls her eyes. You really do live in your office, baby. But there’s a touch of trepidation in her voice when she tells him. Well, I haven’t exactly done one of these before. I mean. Swimsuits are basically the same thing. It’s kind of, uh, a lingerie shoot.
Some men do like lingerie. Many men really like Mina in lingerie. But Khaleid - and it’s something of an understatement - is not one of them.
…
…
…
…
…