here
You’re staring again.
And she’s staring back at you with those eyes, those goddamned eyes of hers; cerulean pools you’d so easily drown in if given the opportunity. Talk isn’t necessary; she doesn’t have to utter a single word because she says it all in the way she’s looking at you.
But she does make a sound. Quite a few actually and you panic, “for the love of god be quiet,” you mutter, slowing your movements enough to guarantee a captive audience.
A nod. A pathetic whine.
Her breath is coming in labored pants, cheeks flushed, flaxen hair tumbling down her shoulders, eyes pleading. Begging.
So you give in and she starts again with her little noises and you can’t help but worry that if she doesn’t shut up soon, everyone will find out.
A groan. A whimper. A whispered oh god, begging PLEASE.
Moonlight dances on sweat-slicked skin, incandescent, she hypnotizes as you watch the movement of her body against yours; the rapid rise and fall of her chest, the sway of her hair, muscles tensing and eyelids shutting in an attempt to hold on [physically and figuratively].
You don’t know how you got here.
But you wish she wasn’t so goddamned loud...her moans and grunts amplified by the absolute dead silence of the night. Because she’s in your tent and let’s face it, these walls are paper-thin.
You don’t know how you got here.
But your unoccupied hand nimbly finds its way to her bare back, fingertips drawing a faint line up her spine to her neck where you tangle your hand in her jumbled mess of hair. An abrupt tug has those eyes open again looking directly at you, consciousness amiss, stripped and raw, contrasting the usual cold and calculating scrutiny you’re accustomed to. “Hey-“ you snap maybe a little too harshly because her brow furrows in confusion, “I told you to shut. Up,” the last syllable punctuated with the sudden curl of your fingers buried inside her. You can see the cry threatening to break out of her lungs before it even escapes her throat, so you’re quick to cut it off with your mouth on hers.
The tension is palpable, her frustration at a lack of auditory release mirrored in the force with which she kisses you. Desperate. Deprived. Demanding.
You really don’t know how you got here.
But you’re beginning not to care.
How you went from despising and reviling her to wanting so franticly to devour every last bit of her. There’s these little whimpers she makes that resonate deep inside you; they paint her so completely vulnerable, which is a trait you didn’t easily associate with the woman straddling your lap.
It has you undone.
Every muscle in your body burns and you’re fast regretting not fucking her on the floor because your knees throb in the position you’re sitting, but the image of her writhing on your lap, clutching to you as your fingers play her like a piano permeates your mind and you can’t fast let it go.
You know all the right keys.
So you ignore your needs to better suit hers, which by the frequency and volume of her groans suggests she’s almost there; her body bends and her forehead falls to your shoulder as she softly kisses your neck; a blatant contrast to the nails digging painfully into your back.
Murmurs. Whispers.
You think you hear your name on a sigh but your judgment is clouded. Reality distorted.
An unexpected brush of your palm, the perfect twist of your fingers sends her reeling and she’s gone, coming in your lap and you know she so desperately needs to scream her release but she doesn’t, choosing the slightly more painful alternative of biting down on your shoulder. Hard. Her mangled cry lost in your skin as you wince at the pain laced with pleasure.
That’s going to leave a mark…
Heat radiates from her body, withdrawing your hand from between her legs earns you the most pathetic protest in your ear as she leans fully into you, wrapping her arms around your slender frame and tenderly kissing your quickly bruising shoulder.
And you stay like that, wrapped completely in her. Whole.
At least until she senses your discomfort in such an awkward position and slides off you to the floor, lying on her back doused in moonlight. She glows you think, and smile, which in turn makes her smile. It’s infectious.
You try to move, groaning as your joints protest. “This shit’s really bad for my knees,” you grunt and she chuckles, lifting her arms up beckoning you to lie down with her which you can only oblige so willingly as you place a seemingly endless kiss on her lips. She hums her delight and you regretfully part, curling up at her side with your head on her stomach and limbs draped over her.
You don’t know how you got here.
But you wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.
And she’s staring back at you with those eyes, those goddamned eyes of hers; cerulean pools you’d so easily drown in if given the opportunity. Talk isn’t necessary; she doesn’t have to utter a single word because she says it all in the way she’s looking at you.
But she does make a sound. Quite a few actually and you panic, “for the love of god be quiet,” you mutter, slowing your movements enough to guarantee a captive audience.
A nod. A pathetic whine.
Her breath is coming in labored pants, cheeks flushed, flaxen hair tumbling down her shoulders, eyes pleading. Begging.
So you give in and she starts again with her little noises and you can’t help but worry that if she doesn’t shut up soon, everyone will find out.
A groan. A whimper. A whispered oh god, begging PLEASE.
Moonlight dances on sweat-slicked skin, incandescent, she hypnotizes as you watch the movement of her body against yours; the rapid rise and fall of her chest, the sway of her hair, muscles tensing and eyelids shutting in an attempt to hold on [physically and figuratively].
You don’t know how you got here.
But you wish she wasn’t so goddamned loud...her moans and grunts amplified by the absolute dead silence of the night. Because she’s in your tent and let’s face it, these walls are paper-thin.
You don’t know how you got here.
But your unoccupied hand nimbly finds its way to her bare back, fingertips drawing a faint line up her spine to her neck where you tangle your hand in her jumbled mess of hair. An abrupt tug has those eyes open again looking directly at you, consciousness amiss, stripped and raw, contrasting the usual cold and calculating scrutiny you’re accustomed to. “Hey-“ you snap maybe a little too harshly because her brow furrows in confusion, “I told you to shut. Up,” the last syllable punctuated with the sudden curl of your fingers buried inside her. You can see the cry threatening to break out of her lungs before it even escapes her throat, so you’re quick to cut it off with your mouth on hers.
The tension is palpable, her frustration at a lack of auditory release mirrored in the force with which she kisses you. Desperate. Deprived. Demanding.
You really don’t know how you got here.
But you’re beginning not to care.
How you went from despising and reviling her to wanting so franticly to devour every last bit of her. There’s these little whimpers she makes that resonate deep inside you; they paint her so completely vulnerable, which is a trait you didn’t easily associate with the woman straddling your lap.
It has you undone.
Every muscle in your body burns and you’re fast regretting not fucking her on the floor because your knees throb in the position you’re sitting, but the image of her writhing on your lap, clutching to you as your fingers play her like a piano permeates your mind and you can’t fast let it go.
You know all the right keys.
So you ignore your needs to better suit hers, which by the frequency and volume of her groans suggests she’s almost there; her body bends and her forehead falls to your shoulder as she softly kisses your neck; a blatant contrast to the nails digging painfully into your back.
Murmurs. Whispers.
You think you hear your name on a sigh but your judgment is clouded. Reality distorted.
An unexpected brush of your palm, the perfect twist of your fingers sends her reeling and she’s gone, coming in your lap and you know she so desperately needs to scream her release but she doesn’t, choosing the slightly more painful alternative of biting down on your shoulder. Hard. Her mangled cry lost in your skin as you wince at the pain laced with pleasure.
That’s going to leave a mark…
Heat radiates from her body, withdrawing your hand from between her legs earns you the most pathetic protest in your ear as she leans fully into you, wrapping her arms around your slender frame and tenderly kissing your quickly bruising shoulder.
And you stay like that, wrapped completely in her. Whole.
At least until she senses your discomfort in such an awkward position and slides off you to the floor, lying on her back doused in moonlight. She glows you think, and smile, which in turn makes her smile. It’s infectious.
You try to move, groaning as your joints protest. “This shit’s really bad for my knees,” you grunt and she chuckles, lifting her arms up beckoning you to lie down with her which you can only oblige so willingly as you place a seemingly endless kiss on her lips. She hums her delight and you regretfully part, curling up at her side with your head on her stomach and limbs draped over her.
You don’t know how you got here.
But you wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.