FAKE: And Unashamed (R/NC-17)
Summary: "What's the rush? We have all evening."
Notes: hatfullofstars requested Berkeley/Diana smut for my birthday challenge. This isn't quite as smutty as I was hoping for, but I trust it'll suit.
AND UNASHAMED
*
"Strip," she says.
He raises his eyebrows. "What's the rush? We have all evening." He starts undressing anyway: topcoat draped neatly over the back of a chair, shoes toed off and left by the door. Berkeley Rose is an elegant bastard.
But he isn't the one calling the shots, not tonight. So when he slows down, button by button, Diana stands up from where she'd been lounging on his couch, and prowls over to him. "All evening," she repeats, sweet as sugar, then drops her voice to a purr. "And I don't want to waste it on your clothes. Strip."
"As you wish," he says, though his eyes narrow. He does it, though, that's the important thing. He strips off all those elegant layers and stands there. Just as gorgeous without his clothes, damn him. Maybe more.
She's been staring too long: he's smiling at her again. "Come here," she says, and privately thanks her lucky stars that it comes out husky rather than a dry-throated croak.
He does, and without waiting for an order, leans in and kisses her. Not demanding, exactly. It's just that he knows exactly how to kiss her to get her wet. He doesn't need to rush things to get what he wants.
Bastard.
She pushes him away while she can still think. "Not yet," she croons. Ah, there go his eyes again! But she presses down on his shoulders until he slowly, slowly kneels down in front of her. "Stay."
"Dogs bite, Diana."
"Not if they've promised not to."
He sits back on his heels. "Not yet," he says softly.
"Of course not," she says, and smiles down at him. He won't bite. Biting leaves marks, and marks mean explanations tomorrow.
Then again, it isn't him who'd have to do the explaining, so perhaps he would bite after all.
She steps back -- only a few steps, she hadn't gone too far from the couch -- and settles against the cushions again, never looking away from him. "Touch yourself."
"What?"
"You were the one who threatened biting, dear." She runs the tips of her nails down the front of her (very short) dress, along the inside of her thighs, taunting him with what he'll have soon enough. She won't be able to resist: she knows that. His mouth alone, oh God! But not yet. If they're going to go slow, it's going to be her slow.
So she rolls over onto her front, props her chin on her hands, and watches his elegant hands on that elegant body. Morning will come all too quickly. In the meantime, she'll damn well enjoy herself.
-end-
Notes: hatfullofstars requested Berkeley/Diana smut for my birthday challenge. This isn't quite as smutty as I was hoping for, but I trust it'll suit.
AND UNASHAMED
*
"Strip," she says.
He raises his eyebrows. "What's the rush? We have all evening." He starts undressing anyway: topcoat draped neatly over the back of a chair, shoes toed off and left by the door. Berkeley Rose is an elegant bastard.
But he isn't the one calling the shots, not tonight. So when he slows down, button by button, Diana stands up from where she'd been lounging on his couch, and prowls over to him. "All evening," she repeats, sweet as sugar, then drops her voice to a purr. "And I don't want to waste it on your clothes. Strip."
"As you wish," he says, though his eyes narrow. He does it, though, that's the important thing. He strips off all those elegant layers and stands there. Just as gorgeous without his clothes, damn him. Maybe more.
She's been staring too long: he's smiling at her again. "Come here," she says, and privately thanks her lucky stars that it comes out husky rather than a dry-throated croak.
He does, and without waiting for an order, leans in and kisses her. Not demanding, exactly. It's just that he knows exactly how to kiss her to get her wet. He doesn't need to rush things to get what he wants.
Bastard.
She pushes him away while she can still think. "Not yet," she croons. Ah, there go his eyes again! But she presses down on his shoulders until he slowly, slowly kneels down in front of her. "Stay."
"Dogs bite, Diana."
"Not if they've promised not to."
He sits back on his heels. "Not yet," he says softly.
"Of course not," she says, and smiles down at him. He won't bite. Biting leaves marks, and marks mean explanations tomorrow.
Then again, it isn't him who'd have to do the explaining, so perhaps he would bite after all.
She steps back -- only a few steps, she hadn't gone too far from the couch -- and settles against the cushions again, never looking away from him. "Touch yourself."
"What?"
"You were the one who threatened biting, dear." She runs the tips of her nails down the front of her (very short) dress, along the inside of her thighs, taunting him with what he'll have soon enough. She won't be able to resist: she knows that. His mouth alone, oh God! But not yet. If they're going to go slow, it's going to be her slow.
So she rolls over onto her front, props her chin on her hands, and watches his elegant hands on that elegant body. Morning will come all too quickly. In the meantime, she'll damn well enjoy herself.
-end-