Then Came The Rush Of Flood
then came the rush of flood
you know he wants you. it's paris and it's lust, and you've never enjoyed forbiddenness quite as much. rpf. mcdonnell/callis. set at the jules verne festival. nc17. 850 words. for icedteainthebag.
then came the rush of flood
You know he wants you. You can see it in his eyes, in the way he looks at you, in his touch, in the trembling of his fingers when he hugged you after the ceremony. It's in his voice, just a note higher than usual, and you might be the only one who notices. But what's important is that you notice.
You can sense his gaze on your back when you leave the room with the serious intent to finally go to sleep. He's watching you walk away from the slowly dispersing crowd, and you know he's not the only one that looks. You've caught quite a lot of them staring today, and it feels so good to find out you can still turn the heads of men much younger than you. Even Jamie did his fair share of ogling, and you pretended not to notice, like you did with all the others, too.
Well, almost all the others.
You feel his presence even before you hear the footsteps on the soft grey carpet of the hotel lobby where you're waiting for the elevator that will take you to your room. (Or his, you can't say that you particularly care, as long as it's fast and free and now.)
You wait for the doors to open and then close again once you've stepped inside, but the second you're alone in the enclosed space, he pulls you flush against him and starts nibbling at your throat. His hands quickly divest you of your underwear, and you're honest enough to admit to yourself that this is one of the reasons why you decided to wear this particular dress in the first place: the easy access to your panties, and a neck line that nobody can ignore or resist.
With a glance to the floor sign (3- your room is on floor 56, the highest, his just one below), you unzip his pants and trail one of your hands inside, stroking over his boxers twice before squeezing hard. He gasps and you know that you've got him. His left hand pushes the fabric of your dress away to make contact with your breasts, while the other one wanders under your skirt and, without much preamble, touches your tender flesh. It's your turn to growl, a deep, throaty sound that makes him chuckle.
Bastard!, you think, and squeeze harder, wiping the smug smirk off his face.
He fondles you in earnest now as you reach your hand into his shorts, and from the way he's going at it, it almost seems like he has a system, a plan how to make you fall apart and put you back together. Satisfaction guaranteed.
His fingers alter between circling your center and flicking right there, but he's only teasing because he knows how much you hate (love) it. You push down on his hand, trying to get him to fuck you faster, harder, more, but he only shakes his head. You look at the sign at the elevator wall again (20th floor already), and hiss "We don't have all night!"
He pauses and seems to dwell on your words for a second or two (no matter how long it is, it's too long either way; every second he keeps thinking could be spent fucking instead and you really only care for his body right now).
You take him in your hand and curl your fist, tight tight tight, until a quiet groan tells you you have his full attention again.
He starts moving his fingers, but suddenly, they are no longer just on you, but inside you and around you, there, and his rhythm could not be more perfect. You sync the movements of your hand to his, and every time he alters speed or angle, so do you.
It does not take long for either of you to feel the tingling start, and the floor numbers are rushing by now, nothing but a blur, but you guess that you must be in the forties now.
"God, more", you hear yourself say, and he obliges, turning his hand in a way that makes his palm press against your clit with every thrust.
You try to keep up your own rhythm around him, you want him to find release, too, but when he kisses one of your breasts and bites down hard on the nipple while crooking his fingers just so-
-you come harder than you have in months, and he draws it out until you moan and whimper.
His hands are on your waist now, steadying you because he's afraid you'll trip (which you would, if you could only tell your feet to start moving). The elevator doors have opened, but you didn't even notice you'd arrived.
He's still hard in your fist and you know this is far from over. He will make you come until you scream his name and only then find his own pleasure. The mere thought makes you tremble again, not in ecstasy this time, but in anticipation, and you tug him out of the elevator and into your room without another coherent thought.
fin.
you know he wants you. it's paris and it's lust, and you've never enjoyed forbiddenness quite as much. rpf. mcdonnell/callis. set at the jules verne festival. nc17. 850 words. for icedteainthebag.
then came the rush of flood
You know he wants you. You can see it in his eyes, in the way he looks at you, in his touch, in the trembling of his fingers when he hugged you after the ceremony. It's in his voice, just a note higher than usual, and you might be the only one who notices. But what's important is that you notice.
You can sense his gaze on your back when you leave the room with the serious intent to finally go to sleep. He's watching you walk away from the slowly dispersing crowd, and you know he's not the only one that looks. You've caught quite a lot of them staring today, and it feels so good to find out you can still turn the heads of men much younger than you. Even Jamie did his fair share of ogling, and you pretended not to notice, like you did with all the others, too.
Well, almost all the others.
You feel his presence even before you hear the footsteps on the soft grey carpet of the hotel lobby where you're waiting for the elevator that will take you to your room. (Or his, you can't say that you particularly care, as long as it's fast and free and now.)
You wait for the doors to open and then close again once you've stepped inside, but the second you're alone in the enclosed space, he pulls you flush against him and starts nibbling at your throat. His hands quickly divest you of your underwear, and you're honest enough to admit to yourself that this is one of the reasons why you decided to wear this particular dress in the first place: the easy access to your panties, and a neck line that nobody can ignore or resist.
With a glance to the floor sign (3- your room is on floor 56, the highest, his just one below), you unzip his pants and trail one of your hands inside, stroking over his boxers twice before squeezing hard. He gasps and you know that you've got him. His left hand pushes the fabric of your dress away to make contact with your breasts, while the other one wanders under your skirt and, without much preamble, touches your tender flesh. It's your turn to growl, a deep, throaty sound that makes him chuckle.
Bastard!, you think, and squeeze harder, wiping the smug smirk off his face.
He fondles you in earnest now as you reach your hand into his shorts, and from the way he's going at it, it almost seems like he has a system, a plan how to make you fall apart and put you back together. Satisfaction guaranteed.
His fingers alter between circling your center and flicking right there, but he's only teasing because he knows how much you hate (love) it. You push down on his hand, trying to get him to fuck you faster, harder, more, but he only shakes his head. You look at the sign at the elevator wall again (20th floor already), and hiss "We don't have all night!"
He pauses and seems to dwell on your words for a second or two (no matter how long it is, it's too long either way; every second he keeps thinking could be spent fucking instead and you really only care for his body right now).
You take him in your hand and curl your fist, tight tight tight, until a quiet groan tells you you have his full attention again.
He starts moving his fingers, but suddenly, they are no longer just on you, but inside you and around you, there, and his rhythm could not be more perfect. You sync the movements of your hand to his, and every time he alters speed or angle, so do you.
It does not take long for either of you to feel the tingling start, and the floor numbers are rushing by now, nothing but a blur, but you guess that you must be in the forties now.
"God, more", you hear yourself say, and he obliges, turning his hand in a way that makes his palm press against your clit with every thrust.
You try to keep up your own rhythm around him, you want him to find release, too, but when he kisses one of your breasts and bites down hard on the nipple while crooking his fingers just so-
-you come harder than you have in months, and he draws it out until you moan and whimper.
His hands are on your waist now, steadying you because he's afraid you'll trip (which you would, if you could only tell your feet to start moving). The elevator doors have opened, but you didn't even notice you'd arrived.
He's still hard in your fist and you know this is far from over. He will make you come until you scream his name and only then find his own pleasure. The mere thought makes you tremble again, not in ecstasy this time, but in anticipation, and you tug him out of the elevator and into your room without another coherent thought.
fin.