Eloquent Sam is dropping the sword with a clatter and kissing her back, hands just a little rough against her skin, running along her sides and over her back.
Sam decides, very quickly, not to bother asking questions, just slides his hands up her arms to her bare shoulders, working on the knot of her halterneck.
He figures she'll tell him to stop when she wants him to.
Her snakes possibly don't help. There is the thought to move out of the way, to help, and then there is the thought of warm hands, Sam's hands. So, what Sam gets even Medusa kisses him is a couple of her snakes sliding against his hands.
And Sam's just fine with that - it's new, somewhat, but then he's ever been very hard to surprise.
So his hands are moving smooth and slow, not so much out of being gentle as being careful not to crush the snakes as he undoes the knot of her dress and lets the straps fall loose.
And that is what gets her to stop, for a certain definition of the word 'stop'. She breaks off the kissing and rests her forehead against his shoulder, one arm still around his neck with her other hand against his chest.
Medusa looks up, her expression uncertain. She steps away, just slightly, enough that she has to press her hand to the top of her dress to keep it falling.
She's always been honest, her expressions moving across her face without much of an attempt to stop them. Her chocolate-brown eyes are darker than normal, dark with desire and her cat's slit pupils are dilated. Still, despite that desire, there is uncertainty.
It's quite tempting to tease her, really, but this time Sam doesn't say anything, just laughs, and pulls her forward, and kisses her again, thoroughly.
Kissing is good. She likes kissing (some of the time). Especially Sam's kisses. All logic regarding her never really have kissed anyone else will be ignored.
At some point, though, she lets her dress slip down. It's still hugging her hips, but there's bare skin against bare skin and she's trying hard not to think about how much it makes her want to burst out in embarrassed giggling.
Or just how much it's twisting the butterflies in her stomach.
Thinking is, clearly, very much over-rated indeed. Sam's hands are running over her skin, his arms around her, and a little after her dress slides down they move from her sides and back and shoulders to play over her front, just touching, for the moment.
That causes her to shiver, but Medusa doesn't move away. Twisting nervous whatamidoingfeelsgood and even as the fingers of her right hand, the one around his neck, twist and move and fidget because this is strange and new (and her wings move, too, shifting and chiming), she moves her left hand down Sam's side.
The movements are similar to his, just run hand over skin and touch, touch, don't stop touching, but even as she does so there is the faint sensation of her claws. Not enough to scratch, not enough to leave a mark that lasts for more then a moment, but it's not quite the same feeling as nails.
Eloquent Sam is Eloquent.
Eloquent Sam is dropping the sword with a clatter and kissing her back, hands just a little rough against her skin, running along her sides and over her back.
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Although, on the other hand, thinking is overrated.
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He figures she'll tell him to stop when she wants him to.
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So his hands are moving smooth and slow, not so much out of being gentle as being careful not to crush the snakes as he undoes the knot of her dress and lets the straps fall loose.
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Shakily,
"Hi."
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Sam's voice is calm and gentle, for all that he's gasping slightly for breath, and he's watching her steadily.
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She's always been honest, her expressions moving across her face without much of an attempt to stop them. Her chocolate-brown eyes are darker than normal, dark with desire and her cat's slit pupils are dilated. Still, despite that desire, there is uncertainty.
"Um. Sorry."
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"What're you sorry for?"
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"Oh. Good. I mean, I hoped you...not that I was, um, thinking."
Pause.
"I know you, uh. Stop when I ask. But could you...kiss me again?"
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At some point, though, she lets her dress slip down. It's still hugging her hips, but there's bare skin against bare skin and she's trying hard not to think about how much it makes her want to burst out in embarrassed giggling.
Or just how much it's twisting the butterflies in her stomach.
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The movements are similar to his, just run hand over skin and touch, touch, don't stop touching, but even as she does so there is the faint sensation of her claws. Not enough to scratch, not enough to leave a mark that lasts for more then a moment, but it's not quite the same feeling as nails.
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