fic: What I'd Do To You (Part VI)
RATING: NC-17
WORDS: 3,543
PAIRINGS: Lea/Dianna
SUMMARY: You’d think all they’d want to do now is sleep…
NOTES: Final part. Yay! Thanks for sticking with this fic. A very happy belated birthday to pleasurechest. And happy Easter to you all!
xxxxx
“Urgh, so full,” she moans, rubbing her stomach. You finish your final pancake and lean forward to place both empty plates on the table in front of the couch before snuggling back against her. She presses a kiss against your temple and grins. “Thanks for breakfast.”
“A well-deserved breakfast,” you reply, knowing that if you closed your eyes right now, you’d probably fall asleep within moments. “Although I’m not sure if it’s still called breakfast if it’s eaten in the middle of the afternoon.”
“You have maple syrup all over your face,” she says, licking her thumb to rub a spot of the sticky substance from your cheek. You grimace and try to squirm away from her. “How about we watch a movie?” she says, giving up when you come close to falling off the couch.
“You pick,” you say, yawning loudly as she stands up. You stretch out as soon as she’s gone, pretending to snore.
“No sleeping!” she reprimands, picking up a cushion from one of the armchairs and launching it at you. It hits you in the stomach with a dull thud causing you to groan. “If you sleep now, you won’t sleep tonight and I need to sleep tonight.”
“Yes, mom,” you say, earning yourself a cushion to the face this time. Chuckling, you pull yourself upright and leave her to choose a DVD, heading through to the en-suite to clean off the maple syrup that’s stuck to your chin.
“Babe?” you hear her call as you make your way back through the bedroom. “Can you grab a blanket?”
“Sure,” you reply, pulling the blanket off the unmade bed and heading back through to the lounge. She’s stretched out with her arms behind her head, grinning as you come into view. “Not fair. If I don’t get to lie down, neither do you!”
“You could lie down…” she says, smirking at you. You roll your eyes and toss the blanket at her. “Unless you’re bored with me.”
“Three years of marriage does wear a person down,” you sigh heavily, waiting for her sit up again. She unravels the blanket and, after you’ve joined her on the couch once more, drapes it over the both of you. “Can you believe it’s been three years?”
“The worst three years of my life,” she grins, pressing her lips to your temple again.
“Without a doubt,” you agree, taking her hand in yours. Her wedding ring sparkles up at you and you can’t stop a ridiculously huge smile from crossing your lips as memories from one of the happiest days of your life flit through your mind. “What have you picked?”
“Well, the last time we watched a movie, I picked and you fell asleep so I figured we’d go old school…” she presses a button on the remote control and the opening scene of The Shining starts to play. Your eyes light up and you squeeze her hand.
“I was super-tired that day,” you whisper excitedly. “Wait! Pause it!”
She sighs as you hop off the couch to run around the room, closing all the curtains and shutting off the lights as you go. In the darkness, you nearly trip over your own feet in your haste to get back to the couch.
“Ready?” she asks, after you’ve pulled the blanket up around your chin and snuggled in tight to her. She snakes her arm around your back, resting her hand against your thigh and restarts the film when you nod against her shoulder.
You’re riveted, of course, but after half an hour, you can sense that her interest is waning. Beneath the blanket, her fingertips have started drawing patterns against your hipbone. You attempt to focus on the film but when her hand shifts a little higher, playing with the waistband of your pyjama pants, you risk a glance at her.
Outwardly, she appears to be captivated by what’s happening on the television; her gaze never falters as you continue to look at her. You place a hand on her thigh, deciding that, for the second time so far today, two can play this game. Her hand immediately stills against you and you feel her take a slightly quicker breath before she continues stroking you, fingers trailing around the top of your pyjamas.
You try to follow the gentle rhythm she’s set, as though her movements are controlled by some sort of internal metronome. Left to right then back again, over and over. A sharp pulse rockets through your body when her fingers drift a little too far and tickle a sensitive patch of skin but she doesn’t appear to register the quiet whimper that escapes your lips. Your hand tightening on her thigh, however, causes her to turn her head.
“Everything okay?” she asks, her expression unreadable when her face illuminates due to a sudden flash from the screen. She slides her hand beneath the material of your pyjamas. Readily, you nod, trying not to react to way her palm is rubbing against your skin, her hand moving meticulously in its rhythm, up and down, over and over.
“Yes,” you mutter, pushing yourself even tighter against her. Your hand is climbing higher with every stroke along her thigh and you’re pretty sure it isn’t your imagination when she shifts just enough to allow her to spread her thighs a little wider.
You both turn back to the television screen but you can’t pay attention to the film. You’re too focused on the way her hand is moving against you, sending ripples of pleasure through your body, and the way your fingers are ignoring your brain and venturing ever higher across her skin. Her sigh is a little disappointed when you force yourself to slide your hand back down towards her knee.
“Mean,” she exhales causing you to chuckle.
“You started it,” you reply, leaning your head a little closer to nip the skin below her ear.
“Only because I was hoping you’d finish it,” she replies, her fingers dig into your skin and you gasp as she starts to knead your flesh.
“God,” you mutter, head burrowing into the crook of her neck. “You’re insatiable.”
“That’s your fault,” she replies, not lessening the pressure she’s exerting. Your eyes are screwed shut now, mouth open against her neck as your breathing becomes irregular. “You’re just too damn good.”
“You’re not so bad yourself,” you hear yourself say, aware that your hand has stopped moving and you’re gripping her thigh almost vice-like. You feel yourself tremble as she continues massaging you and finally remember to let go of her. “Fuck.”
“Mmhmm,” she murmurs and you can hear the smile on her face. “Am I being too rough, babe?” She squeezes you a little too hard, nails scratching at your skin, and you have to smother your yelp, pressing your mouth fully against her neck. You let your teeth graze against her and she moans in response.
Movie forgotten, she pulls you around onto her lap, crushing your mouths together. The blanket is cast aside as you straddle one of her thighs, attempting to pull off the hoody she’d dressed you in while making breakfast. Her hands clasp over yours in the darkness.
“Everything stays on,” she says, a smirk to her voice. You shrug and lean forward to kiss her again, moaning into her mouth when both of her hands slide beneath your pyjama pants this time. She pulls you as close as physically possible and you feel her thigh tense between your legs. Unbidden, your hips roll down and you grind against her, feeling relief.
“I thought you wanted me to…” your sentence trails off when she raises her thigh up to meet you again.
“There’s nothing stopping you from touching me,” she says. “You pride yourself on being an excellent mulit-tasker.”
“You’re too distracting,” you reply, head lolling backwards when one of her hands slides out from beneath your pyjamas and comes to rest near the top of your thigh, the pad of her thumb working circles through the material, inching higher and higher until you’re grinding forwards again, desperate to feel her fingers against the ache building at the apex of your legs. She’s tantalisingly close and you swear you feel the faintest of touches right before she draws her hand away and brings it around to the small of your back.
“Tease,” you whimper and pitch forwards, making sure you maintain contact with the taut muscle of her thigh as you brace your hands against the back of the couch.
“You enjoy it, really,” she muses, turning her head a little to press her lips against your jaw. “I can feel how much you’re enjoying it.”
You remain silent and concentrate on not making any sudden moves, nothing that will cause the ache to get worse. She’s right though: you’re soaked and she can feel it despite the barrier of your pyjamas and hers.
“Hardly seems fair,” you say through measured breaths. She ducks her head a little further and kisses your neck, sucking just hard enough that your hips buck against her. You moan and she stops.
“What isn’t fair?” she asks, stroking your thigh once more. Very slowly and as carefully as possible, you start rocking your hips back and forth against her. Her breath hitches and her hand moves away again, causing you to jerk forwards a little harder than you want to.
“In the kitchen,” you say, wishing that you could regain some sort of control over what the lower half of your body is doing. “You were the one who…” you trail off, inexplicably shy.
“Gave?” she supplies. “And you think that it’s only fair if we take turns?” At your lack of response, she continues. “I’m not giving you anything. You’re the one fucking my leg.”
“Fuck,” you moan. “You’re only talking like this because it’s dark. You think I don’t know that you’re blushing.”
Her silence tells you that you’re right and, blindly, you reach out towards the end table, somehow managing to flick the lamp on. Her cheeks are crimson and she’s biting her bottom lip sheepishly. You lean in close, letting your lips ghost over hers.
“I know sometimes you freak out about it but I really like it when you talk,” you say, rolling your hips down again. And again. Your eyes close momentarily and you exhale heavily as a pulse rockets through you, causing you to arch away from her. Her hands are on your back though, keeping you upright.
“I think I sound ridiculous,” she says, glancing down between your bodies to where you’re still rubbing against her thigh, still trying to control how fast you’re moving, still wondering how long you’ll be able to keep this criminally slow pace up.
“I’m inclined to disagree,” you reply, eyes closing again as a shaky breath leaves your lips.
“Keep your eyes closed,” she whispers and you nod. “Lean forward again.” You do exactly as she says, hands bracing once more against the back of the couch. You slide forward a little and gasp in relief as she raises her leg, making contact in exactly the spot you need it most.
“There,” you mutter against your will then gasp when she clamps her hands on your hips and somehow manages to intensify the contact between your bodies. Her lips find your neck and she presses kisses against your skin, moving up until her mouth is below your ear.
“Talk to me,” she whispers. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”
“You go first,” you shoot back, not willing to let her off the hook so easily. “Tell me what’s going through your mind right now. Tell me what you want me to do.”
She hesitates and you feel her sigh, her grip on your hips loosening. In the loss of contact, you can’t stop yourself from pressing down hard against her and groaning in relief as you work backwards and forwards against her, every movement causing a spark to set off somewhere in your body.
“Baby,” you say, breaking the silence. “Say something.”
Her hands grab you, fingers digging into your skin, forcing you to slow your movements once again.
“When I let go,” she murmurs, lips ghosting over your ear, “I want you to go fast.” Another spark. “I want you to keep going until you come. I want you to tell me how good it feels, how wet you are, how… bad you want me.”
“Keep going,” you tell her, eyes still squeezed shut. Your entire body is thrumming with anticipation; soon there will be relief, soon you can open your eyes, soon you can rip every inch of clothing from both of your bodies and make her feel the way you do right now.
“I love you,” she finishes in a tone that tells you she’s done with talking.
“I love you too,” you reply, just as her fingers relax. All restraint abandoned, you press down against her and moan as your hips begin to rock wildly against her thigh. Relief washes over you and you work on getting the angle that you need, frustration mounting when you fail repeatedly to hit the spot.
Remembering what she’d said before letting go, you open your mouth to speak but your words turn to a startled moan. Her hand has slipped between your legs and her thigh, fingers turned upwards and pushing against your pyjamas. A garbled noise leaves your throat when your clit meets the tips of her fingers.
“Fast,” she reminds you and you nod silently, unable to form any words. Her fingers move upwards against you and you jerk forwards, your speed increasing with every thrust.
Everything builds too fast: the pressure inside you as you careen against her, all rhythm lost; the words that she wants you to say that are probably going to spill out when your climax rips through you; the stifling heat created by the hoody and the pyjamas and the closeness of your bodies. So close. She pushes harder against you and you wonder if you said that out loud.
A wave of dizziness hits you as you begin to tremble. She urges you on, to go faster, to be louder. You’re not even aware that words are leaving your lips because all you can focus on is pressure. Your muscles that are screaming for release, your lungs that are in dire need of oxygen.
Breathe.
When you exhale, it hits you. It hits you in waves. The first causes you to curse and all but scream her name and oaths to God. The second is quieter and causes all the pressure to rush out of your body. You collapse against her and her arms are instantly around you. A lazy smile crosses your lips when you’ve finally found the energy to lift your head.
“Urgh,” you murmur and she starts to giggle.
“That’s all you have to say?” she asks, brushing her fingers across your cheek. You nod and collapse against her again.
“Urgh,” you repeat happily, pressing your lips to her skin. “I move that we spend the rest of our life together on this couch.”
“Seconded,” she says, taking your hands in hers. Her fingers link with yours and you feel her give them a sharp squeeze. “Except I’ve worked really hard on this movie and I’ll be pretty annoyed if it ends up not being made just because we can’t stop having fantastic…”
She pauses to raise your joined hands to her lips.
“Mind-blowing…”
She presses a second kiss to the back of your left hand and grins.
“Messy…”
“We’ve been messier,” you remind her. She gives you a curious look as though wracking her brains to recall something messier than the chocolate from the night before. “Paris.” She blushes slightly before nodding.
“Paris. Our first anniversary.”
A moment of silence passes over you both while you remember the hotel on the banks of the Seine before a soft giggle interrupts your thoughts.
“The chaise…” she murmurs before biting down on her bottom lip. “We should go back to Paris.”
“But we have a nice couch here. One that you probably won’t fall off of this time…” you tell her. “You nearly broke your ankle and I had bruises for a month.” You both share a smile before you slide backwards off her lap, finding your legs a little shaky.
“What are you doing?” she asks, arching an eyebrow as you shimmy out of your pyjama pants. The cool air against your skin makes you sigh in relief.
“I’m too warm,” you say before you hitch the hoody up over your head and discard it on the floor. She rolls her eyes now before focusing her attention on the television. You climb back onto the sofa, back pressed against the arm. “Our couch is about fifty times more comfortable than that chaise.”
“I know,” she says, reluctantly glancing over in your direction. She sighs unevenly and shakes her head. “You’re going to be the death of me. You know that, right?”
You make a noise of agreement and then all the words rush out of your throat. She’s pulling off her sweater and pyjamas and grabbing the blanket from the floor. She pushes your legs apart and nestles between them, draping the blanket over your bodies.
“Next time, we’re definitely watching one of my movies,” she says. “You can fall asleep, I can keep my clothes on.”
“Naked movie-watching is grossly underrated.”
“Babe, you think naked everything is grossly underrated,” she says with a chuckle.
“If you got to see yourself the way I see you, you’d understand why I want you naked as often as possible,” you murmur, pressing your lips to the back of her neck. She remains silent, just shifting slightly, getting more comfortable and pressing backwards against you a little harder.
“Ditto,” she says at last and you burst out laughing, sliding your arms around her waist.
“All I get is a ditto,” you remark, resting your head on her shoulder. Her hands come to rest of the tops of your thighs and she begins to draw patterns across your skin.
“Yup,” she says. “Words are difficult when I’m this tired.”
“Is that a subtle way of telling me that I should hurry the hell up?” you smirk, running both hands up her body to cup her breasts. She arches back and whispers ‘yes’ before pressing her lips to your neck. You both fall quiet as your hands start to massage her, palming both breasts before concentrating on her nipples, teasing them into hard peaks. An occasional whimper drops from her lips, quickly becoming more insistent as you draw out your strokes.
“Please,” she whispers, eyes squeezed shut as she lifts her hips off the couch.
You hum quietly as one of your hands drops away, sliding beneath the blanket to where her hands are still holding onto your thighs; her grip tightens when your fingertips graze over her skin. You’re happy to take your time, to torment her for as long as she can stand it but she has other plans. Somehow she manages to bring her mouth level with your ear, legs straining as she rises off the couch.
“Please,” she growls before grinding roughly against you. “I need…”
“I know,” you reply, turning your head to kiss her. “I know.” You press another kiss to the corner of her mouth before she gasps, legs falling further apart, pushing against your own. Then her hand covers yours and pushes you inside her.
“Yes,” she mutters, mouth open against your neck, shuddering slightly when she remembers to take a breath. “More.”
“Demanding,” you smirk, dropping your other hand beneath the blanket. “Are you sure?”
You press a solitary finger against her clit and she moans, nails digging into your thigh.
“God, please…”
The desperate twinge in her voice convinces you that this definitely isn’t the time to take it slow, that it isn’t the time to draw out everything movement, every stroke, every curl. And you give in. Your fingers push deeper, trying to match the rocking of her hips. You rub against her clit and feel her sigh in relief as a wave of tension rushes over her.
“Close,” she’s muttering before her lips close over yours. You return the kiss and relish every second as she comes apart in your arms. Her lips fall away from yours as she takes a shuddering breath and then releases her grip on your thighs. She falls silent, pulling the blanket up higher around you both and wraps your arms across her waist. “Night.”
“Baby…” you protest softly, glancing at the clock on the wall. “I’m taking you out for dinner.”
“But so sleepy,” she mumbles, burrowing deeper under the blanket.
“If we go out now, you can be in bed by eight,” you try to reason with her. “And this time, I’ll actually let you sleep.”
“You better,” she says. “I can’t fall asleep in my director’s chair tomorrow.”
You chuckle and press your lips to the top of her head.
“Happy anniversary,” you whisper. She shifts in your arms and glances up at you, a grin spreading across her face.
“Happy anniversary.”
WORDS: 3,543
PAIRINGS: Lea/Dianna
SUMMARY: You’d think all they’d want to do now is sleep…
NOTES: Final part. Yay! Thanks for sticking with this fic. A very happy belated birthday to pleasurechest. And happy Easter to you all!
xxxxx
“Urgh, so full,” she moans, rubbing her stomach. You finish your final pancake and lean forward to place both empty plates on the table in front of the couch before snuggling back against her. She presses a kiss against your temple and grins. “Thanks for breakfast.”
“A well-deserved breakfast,” you reply, knowing that if you closed your eyes right now, you’d probably fall asleep within moments. “Although I’m not sure if it’s still called breakfast if it’s eaten in the middle of the afternoon.”
“You have maple syrup all over your face,” she says, licking her thumb to rub a spot of the sticky substance from your cheek. You grimace and try to squirm away from her. “How about we watch a movie?” she says, giving up when you come close to falling off the couch.
“You pick,” you say, yawning loudly as she stands up. You stretch out as soon as she’s gone, pretending to snore.
“No sleeping!” she reprimands, picking up a cushion from one of the armchairs and launching it at you. It hits you in the stomach with a dull thud causing you to groan. “If you sleep now, you won’t sleep tonight and I need to sleep tonight.”
“Yes, mom,” you say, earning yourself a cushion to the face this time. Chuckling, you pull yourself upright and leave her to choose a DVD, heading through to the en-suite to clean off the maple syrup that’s stuck to your chin.
“Babe?” you hear her call as you make your way back through the bedroom. “Can you grab a blanket?”
“Sure,” you reply, pulling the blanket off the unmade bed and heading back through to the lounge. She’s stretched out with her arms behind her head, grinning as you come into view. “Not fair. If I don’t get to lie down, neither do you!”
“You could lie down…” she says, smirking at you. You roll your eyes and toss the blanket at her. “Unless you’re bored with me.”
“Three years of marriage does wear a person down,” you sigh heavily, waiting for her sit up again. She unravels the blanket and, after you’ve joined her on the couch once more, drapes it over the both of you. “Can you believe it’s been three years?”
“The worst three years of my life,” she grins, pressing her lips to your temple again.
“Without a doubt,” you agree, taking her hand in yours. Her wedding ring sparkles up at you and you can’t stop a ridiculously huge smile from crossing your lips as memories from one of the happiest days of your life flit through your mind. “What have you picked?”
“Well, the last time we watched a movie, I picked and you fell asleep so I figured we’d go old school…” she presses a button on the remote control and the opening scene of The Shining starts to play. Your eyes light up and you squeeze her hand.
“I was super-tired that day,” you whisper excitedly. “Wait! Pause it!”
She sighs as you hop off the couch to run around the room, closing all the curtains and shutting off the lights as you go. In the darkness, you nearly trip over your own feet in your haste to get back to the couch.
“Ready?” she asks, after you’ve pulled the blanket up around your chin and snuggled in tight to her. She snakes her arm around your back, resting her hand against your thigh and restarts the film when you nod against her shoulder.
You’re riveted, of course, but after half an hour, you can sense that her interest is waning. Beneath the blanket, her fingertips have started drawing patterns against your hipbone. You attempt to focus on the film but when her hand shifts a little higher, playing with the waistband of your pyjama pants, you risk a glance at her.
Outwardly, she appears to be captivated by what’s happening on the television; her gaze never falters as you continue to look at her. You place a hand on her thigh, deciding that, for the second time so far today, two can play this game. Her hand immediately stills against you and you feel her take a slightly quicker breath before she continues stroking you, fingers trailing around the top of your pyjamas.
You try to follow the gentle rhythm she’s set, as though her movements are controlled by some sort of internal metronome. Left to right then back again, over and over. A sharp pulse rockets through your body when her fingers drift a little too far and tickle a sensitive patch of skin but she doesn’t appear to register the quiet whimper that escapes your lips. Your hand tightening on her thigh, however, causes her to turn her head.
“Everything okay?” she asks, her expression unreadable when her face illuminates due to a sudden flash from the screen. She slides her hand beneath the material of your pyjamas. Readily, you nod, trying not to react to way her palm is rubbing against your skin, her hand moving meticulously in its rhythm, up and down, over and over.
“Yes,” you mutter, pushing yourself even tighter against her. Your hand is climbing higher with every stroke along her thigh and you’re pretty sure it isn’t your imagination when she shifts just enough to allow her to spread her thighs a little wider.
You both turn back to the television screen but you can’t pay attention to the film. You’re too focused on the way her hand is moving against you, sending ripples of pleasure through your body, and the way your fingers are ignoring your brain and venturing ever higher across her skin. Her sigh is a little disappointed when you force yourself to slide your hand back down towards her knee.
“Mean,” she exhales causing you to chuckle.
“You started it,” you reply, leaning your head a little closer to nip the skin below her ear.
“Only because I was hoping you’d finish it,” she replies, her fingers dig into your skin and you gasp as she starts to knead your flesh.
“God,” you mutter, head burrowing into the crook of her neck. “You’re insatiable.”
“That’s your fault,” she replies, not lessening the pressure she’s exerting. Your eyes are screwed shut now, mouth open against her neck as your breathing becomes irregular. “You’re just too damn good.”
“You’re not so bad yourself,” you hear yourself say, aware that your hand has stopped moving and you’re gripping her thigh almost vice-like. You feel yourself tremble as she continues massaging you and finally remember to let go of her. “Fuck.”
“Mmhmm,” she murmurs and you can hear the smile on her face. “Am I being too rough, babe?” She squeezes you a little too hard, nails scratching at your skin, and you have to smother your yelp, pressing your mouth fully against her neck. You let your teeth graze against her and she moans in response.
Movie forgotten, she pulls you around onto her lap, crushing your mouths together. The blanket is cast aside as you straddle one of her thighs, attempting to pull off the hoody she’d dressed you in while making breakfast. Her hands clasp over yours in the darkness.
“Everything stays on,” she says, a smirk to her voice. You shrug and lean forward to kiss her again, moaning into her mouth when both of her hands slide beneath your pyjama pants this time. She pulls you as close as physically possible and you feel her thigh tense between your legs. Unbidden, your hips roll down and you grind against her, feeling relief.
“I thought you wanted me to…” your sentence trails off when she raises her thigh up to meet you again.
“There’s nothing stopping you from touching me,” she says. “You pride yourself on being an excellent mulit-tasker.”
“You’re too distracting,” you reply, head lolling backwards when one of her hands slides out from beneath your pyjamas and comes to rest near the top of your thigh, the pad of her thumb working circles through the material, inching higher and higher until you’re grinding forwards again, desperate to feel her fingers against the ache building at the apex of your legs. She’s tantalisingly close and you swear you feel the faintest of touches right before she draws her hand away and brings it around to the small of your back.
“Tease,” you whimper and pitch forwards, making sure you maintain contact with the taut muscle of her thigh as you brace your hands against the back of the couch.
“You enjoy it, really,” she muses, turning her head a little to press her lips against your jaw. “I can feel how much you’re enjoying it.”
You remain silent and concentrate on not making any sudden moves, nothing that will cause the ache to get worse. She’s right though: you’re soaked and she can feel it despite the barrier of your pyjamas and hers.
“Hardly seems fair,” you say through measured breaths. She ducks her head a little further and kisses your neck, sucking just hard enough that your hips buck against her. You moan and she stops.
“What isn’t fair?” she asks, stroking your thigh once more. Very slowly and as carefully as possible, you start rocking your hips back and forth against her. Her breath hitches and her hand moves away again, causing you to jerk forwards a little harder than you want to.
“In the kitchen,” you say, wishing that you could regain some sort of control over what the lower half of your body is doing. “You were the one who…” you trail off, inexplicably shy.
“Gave?” she supplies. “And you think that it’s only fair if we take turns?” At your lack of response, she continues. “I’m not giving you anything. You’re the one fucking my leg.”
“Fuck,” you moan. “You’re only talking like this because it’s dark. You think I don’t know that you’re blushing.”
Her silence tells you that you’re right and, blindly, you reach out towards the end table, somehow managing to flick the lamp on. Her cheeks are crimson and she’s biting her bottom lip sheepishly. You lean in close, letting your lips ghost over hers.
“I know sometimes you freak out about it but I really like it when you talk,” you say, rolling your hips down again. And again. Your eyes close momentarily and you exhale heavily as a pulse rockets through you, causing you to arch away from her. Her hands are on your back though, keeping you upright.
“I think I sound ridiculous,” she says, glancing down between your bodies to where you’re still rubbing against her thigh, still trying to control how fast you’re moving, still wondering how long you’ll be able to keep this criminally slow pace up.
“I’m inclined to disagree,” you reply, eyes closing again as a shaky breath leaves your lips.
“Keep your eyes closed,” she whispers and you nod. “Lean forward again.” You do exactly as she says, hands bracing once more against the back of the couch. You slide forward a little and gasp in relief as she raises her leg, making contact in exactly the spot you need it most.
“There,” you mutter against your will then gasp when she clamps her hands on your hips and somehow manages to intensify the contact between your bodies. Her lips find your neck and she presses kisses against your skin, moving up until her mouth is below your ear.
“Talk to me,” she whispers. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”
“You go first,” you shoot back, not willing to let her off the hook so easily. “Tell me what’s going through your mind right now. Tell me what you want me to do.”
She hesitates and you feel her sigh, her grip on your hips loosening. In the loss of contact, you can’t stop yourself from pressing down hard against her and groaning in relief as you work backwards and forwards against her, every movement causing a spark to set off somewhere in your body.
“Baby,” you say, breaking the silence. “Say something.”
Her hands grab you, fingers digging into your skin, forcing you to slow your movements once again.
“When I let go,” she murmurs, lips ghosting over your ear, “I want you to go fast.” Another spark. “I want you to keep going until you come. I want you to tell me how good it feels, how wet you are, how… bad you want me.”
“Keep going,” you tell her, eyes still squeezed shut. Your entire body is thrumming with anticipation; soon there will be relief, soon you can open your eyes, soon you can rip every inch of clothing from both of your bodies and make her feel the way you do right now.
“I love you,” she finishes in a tone that tells you she’s done with talking.
“I love you too,” you reply, just as her fingers relax. All restraint abandoned, you press down against her and moan as your hips begin to rock wildly against her thigh. Relief washes over you and you work on getting the angle that you need, frustration mounting when you fail repeatedly to hit the spot.
Remembering what she’d said before letting go, you open your mouth to speak but your words turn to a startled moan. Her hand has slipped between your legs and her thigh, fingers turned upwards and pushing against your pyjamas. A garbled noise leaves your throat when your clit meets the tips of her fingers.
“Fast,” she reminds you and you nod silently, unable to form any words. Her fingers move upwards against you and you jerk forwards, your speed increasing with every thrust.
Everything builds too fast: the pressure inside you as you careen against her, all rhythm lost; the words that she wants you to say that are probably going to spill out when your climax rips through you; the stifling heat created by the hoody and the pyjamas and the closeness of your bodies. So close. She pushes harder against you and you wonder if you said that out loud.
A wave of dizziness hits you as you begin to tremble. She urges you on, to go faster, to be louder. You’re not even aware that words are leaving your lips because all you can focus on is pressure. Your muscles that are screaming for release, your lungs that are in dire need of oxygen.
Breathe.
When you exhale, it hits you. It hits you in waves. The first causes you to curse and all but scream her name and oaths to God. The second is quieter and causes all the pressure to rush out of your body. You collapse against her and her arms are instantly around you. A lazy smile crosses your lips when you’ve finally found the energy to lift your head.
“Urgh,” you murmur and she starts to giggle.
“That’s all you have to say?” she asks, brushing her fingers across your cheek. You nod and collapse against her again.
“Urgh,” you repeat happily, pressing your lips to her skin. “I move that we spend the rest of our life together on this couch.”
“Seconded,” she says, taking your hands in hers. Her fingers link with yours and you feel her give them a sharp squeeze. “Except I’ve worked really hard on this movie and I’ll be pretty annoyed if it ends up not being made just because we can’t stop having fantastic…”
She pauses to raise your joined hands to her lips.
“Mind-blowing…”
She presses a second kiss to the back of your left hand and grins.
“Messy…”
“We’ve been messier,” you remind her. She gives you a curious look as though wracking her brains to recall something messier than the chocolate from the night before. “Paris.” She blushes slightly before nodding.
“Paris. Our first anniversary.”
A moment of silence passes over you both while you remember the hotel on the banks of the Seine before a soft giggle interrupts your thoughts.
“The chaise…” she murmurs before biting down on her bottom lip. “We should go back to Paris.”
“But we have a nice couch here. One that you probably won’t fall off of this time…” you tell her. “You nearly broke your ankle and I had bruises for a month.” You both share a smile before you slide backwards off her lap, finding your legs a little shaky.
“What are you doing?” she asks, arching an eyebrow as you shimmy out of your pyjama pants. The cool air against your skin makes you sigh in relief.
“I’m too warm,” you say before you hitch the hoody up over your head and discard it on the floor. She rolls her eyes now before focusing her attention on the television. You climb back onto the sofa, back pressed against the arm. “Our couch is about fifty times more comfortable than that chaise.”
“I know,” she says, reluctantly glancing over in your direction. She sighs unevenly and shakes her head. “You’re going to be the death of me. You know that, right?”
You make a noise of agreement and then all the words rush out of your throat. She’s pulling off her sweater and pyjamas and grabbing the blanket from the floor. She pushes your legs apart and nestles between them, draping the blanket over your bodies.
“Next time, we’re definitely watching one of my movies,” she says. “You can fall asleep, I can keep my clothes on.”
“Naked movie-watching is grossly underrated.”
“Babe, you think naked everything is grossly underrated,” she says with a chuckle.
“If you got to see yourself the way I see you, you’d understand why I want you naked as often as possible,” you murmur, pressing your lips to the back of her neck. She remains silent, just shifting slightly, getting more comfortable and pressing backwards against you a little harder.
“Ditto,” she says at last and you burst out laughing, sliding your arms around her waist.
“All I get is a ditto,” you remark, resting your head on her shoulder. Her hands come to rest of the tops of your thighs and she begins to draw patterns across your skin.
“Yup,” she says. “Words are difficult when I’m this tired.”
“Is that a subtle way of telling me that I should hurry the hell up?” you smirk, running both hands up her body to cup her breasts. She arches back and whispers ‘yes’ before pressing her lips to your neck. You both fall quiet as your hands start to massage her, palming both breasts before concentrating on her nipples, teasing them into hard peaks. An occasional whimper drops from her lips, quickly becoming more insistent as you draw out your strokes.
“Please,” she whispers, eyes squeezed shut as she lifts her hips off the couch.
You hum quietly as one of your hands drops away, sliding beneath the blanket to where her hands are still holding onto your thighs; her grip tightens when your fingertips graze over her skin. You’re happy to take your time, to torment her for as long as she can stand it but she has other plans. Somehow she manages to bring her mouth level with your ear, legs straining as she rises off the couch.
“Please,” she growls before grinding roughly against you. “I need…”
“I know,” you reply, turning your head to kiss her. “I know.” You press another kiss to the corner of her mouth before she gasps, legs falling further apart, pushing against your own. Then her hand covers yours and pushes you inside her.
“Yes,” she mutters, mouth open against your neck, shuddering slightly when she remembers to take a breath. “More.”
“Demanding,” you smirk, dropping your other hand beneath the blanket. “Are you sure?”
You press a solitary finger against her clit and she moans, nails digging into your thigh.
“God, please…”
The desperate twinge in her voice convinces you that this definitely isn’t the time to take it slow, that it isn’t the time to draw out everything movement, every stroke, every curl. And you give in. Your fingers push deeper, trying to match the rocking of her hips. You rub against her clit and feel her sigh in relief as a wave of tension rushes over her.
“Close,” she’s muttering before her lips close over yours. You return the kiss and relish every second as she comes apart in your arms. Her lips fall away from yours as she takes a shuddering breath and then releases her grip on your thighs. She falls silent, pulling the blanket up higher around you both and wraps your arms across her waist. “Night.”
“Baby…” you protest softly, glancing at the clock on the wall. “I’m taking you out for dinner.”
“But so sleepy,” she mumbles, burrowing deeper under the blanket.
“If we go out now, you can be in bed by eight,” you try to reason with her. “And this time, I’ll actually let you sleep.”
“You better,” she says. “I can’t fall asleep in my director’s chair tomorrow.”
You chuckle and press your lips to the top of her head.
“Happy anniversary,” you whisper. She shifts in your arms and glances up at you, a grin spreading across her face.
“Happy anniversary.”