Smut!Fic: Spectacle
Title: Spectacle (1/2)
Rating: M for Smut!
Summary: Peter, Rose, Glasses and the bedroom. Fairly PWP, and quite rightly so.
A/N: Just a bit of fun that ended up taking me forever to write. Ended up rather on the long side for a PWP as well. Many, many thanks to chicklet73 for the constant hand-holding, beta-ing, encouragement and honesty. Wouldn’t be finished without her. First time posting for a while, hopefully you all like it, I sure liked writing it. Part two will be put up some time in the next 48 hours, it’s all ready to go, I’m just a bit mean.
It’s been one of those days. Long, laborious and a little too mind-numbing. Probably doesn’t help that he’s been sick for almost a week with that stubborn kind of cold that refuses to abate until given a day’s full attention. She’s worried about him, he could hear it in her voice when he called to say he was working late and he can see it in her eyes when he finally walks through the door, a stack of case notes falling onto the table about two steps in and his coat following a step after.
He gives her a half-hearted smile, discontent swirling beneath the surface and she wonders why he bothers coming over on nights like these, nights where what he really wants to do is sit somewhere dark and quiet and get progressively angrier. He won’t talk about what’s upsetting him and not because it’s confidential, not because he doesn’t want to, just because he won’t.
For a moment she considers just returning the smile and quietly leaving him to it but she can’t help but try to understand, try to talk it through. So she does return the smile, as bright as she can muster and, pushing her chair back from the table, makes her way over to him, holding his gaze despite the fact that his lips are now tugged back downward in a frown; not at her, granted, but at life in general.
She touches him, palms flat against his stomach, gauging his breathing and feeling the slight hitch as her fingers brush up his chest. A step closer and her hands curl around the back of his neck, fingertips playing in the wisps of out-of-place hair. Her lips move close as she leans her forehead against his, offering some sort of support as she feels his body sag into hers, fatigued and pulled tight and hard from being on edge too long. She kisses him hard, trying to push whatever it is bothering him to the back of his mind and shamelessly using her body to do it.
Tongue slipping soundlessly over his, her hands grasp at his shoulders, tugging at him roughly, tugging at cloth and muscle and the anger she can feel seeping out. She pulls back and asks, “Better?”
He nods, just the corners of his lips quirking upwards.
“You up for this?” she asks cheekily.
The nodding becomes more vigorous.
“You’re sure?”
He growls through his grin and managers to capture her hands and tug her mouth back to his for a kiss that leaves no room for doubt. It’s breathless and intimate and for a second she wants to give in to the allure of letting him take her. But as the kiss breaks, his breath shaky, the dark circles beneath his eyes make her hands move.
They alight on the waistband of his pants, tugging his shirt free and fumbling with the clasp and zipper before giving up and just settling her hand over the crotch of his pants. She’s rough and harsh, the back of her knuckles pressing into his lower abdomen, tips of her fingers searching for the beginnings of arousal and when she’s found what she’s looking for it’s a calculated assessment of the state of play. Hand pressed against and around, a finger either side and hard pressure as she pushes her palm along the length, the heel of her hand and then her wrist making it last longer than he’s prepared for and he growls something long and dangerous.
He’s up to this.
Withdrawing and distracting him with a kiss that pushes him haphazardly back until he’s caught between her and a wall. She steadies him, hands on his hips, and laughs, deep and throaty, at his expression.
Hands moving up his body, touching and caressing each angle and curve, she lets her nails scratch over the day of growth on his cheeks. She kisses him again, forcing his head back onto the wall as her fingers edge over the cool metal frames of his glasses, into his hair and begin to tug lightly.
When her hands alight on his glasses, intent on removing another of the barriers between them, he stops her with a hand on her wrist. “I’m using those.”
Her lips make an ‘o’ shape but no sound comes out because she’s distracted by the hand that’s managed, in those few seconds of lost concentration, to drag the zipper of her pants down and slide in between the denim and the cotton of her knickers, beginning to stroke. She’ll be damned if she’s going to waste time asking why he wants to wear his glasses.
His mouth closes around her lower lip as she threads together a little control, teeth just grazing the flesh, she forces her mind onto the buttons of his shirt. She starts low, fingers fumbling but eventually finding some small success as the first button slides free. Her hands keep getting caught between them, their bodies pressing close enough that her hands dig into his stomach or ribs but it’s okay, because tonight he likes it a little rough and the sound of a button being torn away doesn’t even provoke a grumble of disapproval. She knows the aggression she’s using is going to leave bruises and while when this began she was fully intent of rewarding him for a hard day at work, for being the dedicated man she fell for, now she can’t help but feel an aspect of punishment present in her fingertips.
She kisses him hard again, pouring whatever pent up emotion she has into it and she’s almost as startled as he at the near-anger she’s radiating. He feels it as much as she does and wrenches his lips from hers to mumble a disjointed question of ‘why?’.
Giving up on the remaining buttons, she pushes him back onto the wall; she hears something crack, and it could be the wall or a joint or his back, she doesn’t care. Her teeth scratch up his cheek, over the five o’clock shadow, her face buried in the mess of his hair as she anchors herself. “You need to look after yourself,” she grumbles.
“That’s your job,” he mumbles back, evidently lost somewhere between the conversation and the action.
Hands gripping either side of his head, not painful, but not tender either, she stares at him, watching his eyes darken behind the glass lenses. “Sometimes you need to say it’s enough work and take a day off, take a breath, treat yourself to a few moments reprieve.” He nods but she’s not convinced he’s agreeing with her. He still looks tired and strained, standing there in a half undone shirt and spectacles, but at least like this he looks alive.
He must see something in her, worry maybe, because his own stare softens and his body relaxes; a small half-smile as he concedes defeat and nods. “We’ll talk,” he says and she believes him, “For now, this is what makes everything else bearable.” his fingers have dipped under the shirt she’s wearing and he’s caressing her skin.
She’s always been amazed at how quickly he can set her at ease. She believes they’ll talk, thinks this is progress, looks at him and is happy to see his smile returning hers. As his hands tug her shirt over her head and a breath of air escapes his lungs as the unexpected sight of her naked form beneath, the worry and the anger leave her and she leans in to kiss him, pressing her naked breasts against him.
“Not here,” he mumbles and his hands splay across her hips. She relaxes, having let him use this trick a couple of times before. It’s a slow dance, instinctive, the way they get from where ever they start to the bedroom. She closes her eyes and lets her lips find that spot on his neck, licking and biting as he steps forward, her feet moving with his. Looking over her shoulder, he can see where they’re going and she can trust him enough to get there. What seems like moments later, she gasps in surprise as her knees hit the bed and she tumbles back onto the sheets, his fingers slipping under her undone jeans and knickers at her hips and pulling them off before she can recover from the distracting way the bed smells of him.
He stands over her and as she sits up on her elbows she can see he’s still wearing pretty much all of his clothes, looking decent if you ignore the three buttons undone or missing at the bottom and the lipstick stain on the collar. It makes her smile that she can be naked, he can be dressed, and it all feel completely natural. The glasses, however, are making frissons of nervous energy tingle across her skin as his gaze crawls over her breasts, his vision looking sharper than the usual lust-induced glaze.
Resisting the urge to continue to look, to make her squirm, he crawls onto the bed, hovering over her on his knees with one hand on the mattress and one in her hair. Moving close, he moves down her neck, lips wide, mouth hot and the sudden smooth contact of not-sweaty glasses frames reminding her again that they’re there. She wonders if that really means he can see her better, considers if it means he can take more of her in with each look. Then his lips suddenly jump to her breast and she forgets about glasses, quickly dismisses thoughts of how he took control of a night meant to be about him and can only feel the sharp electricity of his teeth scratching lightly around a nipple, his tongue flicking hotly across it.
He doesn’t waste time after that, his free hand snaking down her body to between her legs and he knows she wants him, that his tongue on her neck and breasts and in her mouth has made her wet and hot and unbearably desperate and if he’d just open his eyes he’d be able to see her through his glasses. Maybe a trick of his mind, but sharper and brighter than before: more of her to see.
So he moves down, teeth nipping and licking a direct trail over her bellybutton, across soft flesh, nose and mouth pressing into her thigh and breathing in. His hands move swiftly to her hips, catching her eyes in the process and smiling at her from behind the glasses, that dirty, wicked smile that begins as something held-back, tight thin lips, giving way to the flash of white teeth, darkened eyes and the tip of his tongue sliding to rest, just visible, at the corner of his bottom lip.
And by the time she’s transfixed by this, the two seconds it takes, his hands have caressed down, relaxed her thighs and suddenly, without warning, he’s pushing them wide and sliding his tongue inside her.
He wastes no time on formality having done this countless times to Rose. An oral fixation and the love of a lifetime make for a good combination, he’s realized. His tongue sweeps over her, teasing, light, compared to his first penetrating swipe, and she squirms in response, urging him with an arched back and lifted hips. Hands still stroking up her thighs and down to cup her arse, he traces out her name and then his with his tongue, punctuating his letters with a gentle breath or a nudge of his nose or the bizarre feel of his glasses knocking against her until she’s panting and mewling intermittently. The touch of his lips to her flesh makes her realize that there’s more to come and her own mouth falls open as she whispers his name, an invitation to him to return to her mouth and let her return the favor. But he ignores it and she feels him start whispering against her.
And, oh god, this drives her crazy, the combination of the movement of lips and tongue and breath against her with the knowledge that he’s talking and then what he’s talking about all too often pushing her over the edge. Again, her name, whispered as the tip of his tongue flicks at her just there and she groans a little too loudly, her skin flushing red for a number of reasons. “Please,” she begs, legs spreading wider, hips rocking up until she couldn’t offer him a more obvious indulgence and his mouth responding, a chuckle that starts low in his throat but ends up vibrating through her obscenely. A second later, he’s managed to slip a finger inside her, curling it in that way he knows she loves and then stroking in time with the flick of his tongue. Her body eager for release, she’s wet and hot and when a second fingers slides inside she bucks, now so, so close to the edge that they both know it will only take a carefully placed lap of his tongue to finish her.
And that’s when he stops; as her hips follow his mouth up and up and she whimpers, her knuckles white where she’s gripping the sheets and she begs him, not like a moment before when she just wanted to come, now her plea says she belongs to him and he can do what he likes. It’s the best sound in the world. “Peter, please.”
But he’s stopped, he’s pulled his mouth away, his hands away and when she finally gives in, her hands unfurling, her arched body falling back to the mattress with a thump and an angry sigh escaping her lips, he just grins lazily. He sits back on his knees between her bent legs and lets a hand rest on each of her calves, his thumbs drawing circles across the backs of them.
She chances a glance at him and would laugh if she were in any other kind of situation. His glasses are askew, one side unhooked from his ear and his hair has all been pushed to the right making him look like he’s spent the night asleep against the floor. She looks closer, noting, if she’s not mistaken, that those specs are rather fogged up and finally he’s not able to stare at her like he can see the pulse of her blood beneath her skin.
What she doesn’t realize is that the taste of her is intoxicating and he’s feeling just a little bit drunk. That him not being able to see is probably a good thing for both of them because if he could it would no doubt be sensory overload.
Not that that prospect is a cause for concern for him. Pulling his glasses off, he plans only to wipe them clean on his shirt and then kiss her until she whimpers when his fingers encounter a liquid too viscous to be simple condensed air on the lens. He freezes, wondering if she’s noticed, wondering if that’s just a little bit too weird for her: that he was wearing glasses and he was that close to her. But she’s still watching him, unaware, and quickly he keeps moving, wiping the lenses clean on the cotton of his shirt and then replacing his glasses on the bridge of his nose.
She’s too fuzzy to pick up on the fact that the two fingers of his left hand have spent the latter part of this action stuck out like he was drinking out of a posh tea cup.
And now he’s taken too long staring because she lets out an exaggerated sigh, half playful, half frustrated and plops back on to the mattress, hoping to entice him with the very inviting splay of her body.
She doesn’t see it but in those seconds of arching back onto the bed and letting her body beg, he’s rather too busy sucking his fingers into his mouth and trying not to groan at that last taste to notice her.
Now, he looks at her: she’s up on her elbows, glaring at him, hair messy, lips red and a trickle of sweat moving down her neck, between her breasts. She’s utterly beautiful and he’s taking a moment to remember that.
She’s begun staring back, looking at him and trying to keep the contempt for his choice of pause in her eyes, but he simply looks too adorable, too innocent. Which is a silly thought, really, that he looks too innocent. But if you take the suit and the tie and the glasses, they are innocent, they’re refined, they contrast completely to what he’s just been doing with his tongue. And besides that his shirt’s half untucked and sticking to his sweat-slicked back, his pants have slipped low on his hips, the sewing of the clasp snapped by brute force at some point so it’s just the obnoxious zipper keeping them up. One pant leg’s been pulled up his leg ridiculously - they’re such snug pants that the hem’s too tight to get over the knee - but it’s enough that she could feel the contraction and heat and scratchiness of his calf muscle under her foot when he was kissing her and that’s what she’d wanted.
Of course his shoes are still on because they’re always too much trouble to get off. The tie’s been pulled free of the shirt but somehow the knot’s gotten too tight to undo so it’s just hanging around his neck, the arrow of material leading down his half exposed chest twisted into something that doesn’t look anything like a tie.
She gets that far and then he seems to have had enough of torturing her by doing nothing, his hands sliding down to her feet to give a light tickle before pushing back off the bed and, without ceremony, attacking his shoe laces. It takes him longer than they’d like but eventually he’s kicking them away and pushing his pants and boxer briefs to the floor. She watches him with a sly grin, impressed to see him obviously ready for her and a second later he’s crossed back to the edge of the bed.
“You gonna take your glasses off now?” she asks in that playful manner she always used to bely the desperation coursing through her.
“Nope,” he answers, obviously distracted by the difficult task of getting rid of his shirt and tie. Now naked, he looks down and she flushes at the way he continues to look at her. Just as she is about to demand he get on with it, he speaks, “Can we try something?”
To Be Continued Very Soon.
Reviews are of course total Love! Whether they be the constructive kind or not, so let me know what you thought!
Rating: M for Smut!
Summary: Peter, Rose, Glasses and the bedroom. Fairly PWP, and quite rightly so.
A/N: Just a bit of fun that ended up taking me forever to write. Ended up rather on the long side for a PWP as well. Many, many thanks to chicklet73 for the constant hand-holding, beta-ing, encouragement and honesty. Wouldn’t be finished without her. First time posting for a while, hopefully you all like it, I sure liked writing it. Part two will be put up some time in the next 48 hours, it’s all ready to go, I’m just a bit mean.
It’s been one of those days. Long, laborious and a little too mind-numbing. Probably doesn’t help that he’s been sick for almost a week with that stubborn kind of cold that refuses to abate until given a day’s full attention. She’s worried about him, he could hear it in her voice when he called to say he was working late and he can see it in her eyes when he finally walks through the door, a stack of case notes falling onto the table about two steps in and his coat following a step after.
He gives her a half-hearted smile, discontent swirling beneath the surface and she wonders why he bothers coming over on nights like these, nights where what he really wants to do is sit somewhere dark and quiet and get progressively angrier. He won’t talk about what’s upsetting him and not because it’s confidential, not because he doesn’t want to, just because he won’t.
For a moment she considers just returning the smile and quietly leaving him to it but she can’t help but try to understand, try to talk it through. So she does return the smile, as bright as she can muster and, pushing her chair back from the table, makes her way over to him, holding his gaze despite the fact that his lips are now tugged back downward in a frown; not at her, granted, but at life in general.
She touches him, palms flat against his stomach, gauging his breathing and feeling the slight hitch as her fingers brush up his chest. A step closer and her hands curl around the back of his neck, fingertips playing in the wisps of out-of-place hair. Her lips move close as she leans her forehead against his, offering some sort of support as she feels his body sag into hers, fatigued and pulled tight and hard from being on edge too long. She kisses him hard, trying to push whatever it is bothering him to the back of his mind and shamelessly using her body to do it.
Tongue slipping soundlessly over his, her hands grasp at his shoulders, tugging at him roughly, tugging at cloth and muscle and the anger she can feel seeping out. She pulls back and asks, “Better?”
He nods, just the corners of his lips quirking upwards.
“You up for this?” she asks cheekily.
The nodding becomes more vigorous.
“You’re sure?”
He growls through his grin and managers to capture her hands and tug her mouth back to his for a kiss that leaves no room for doubt. It’s breathless and intimate and for a second she wants to give in to the allure of letting him take her. But as the kiss breaks, his breath shaky, the dark circles beneath his eyes make her hands move.
They alight on the waistband of his pants, tugging his shirt free and fumbling with the clasp and zipper before giving up and just settling her hand over the crotch of his pants. She’s rough and harsh, the back of her knuckles pressing into his lower abdomen, tips of her fingers searching for the beginnings of arousal and when she’s found what she’s looking for it’s a calculated assessment of the state of play. Hand pressed against and around, a finger either side and hard pressure as she pushes her palm along the length, the heel of her hand and then her wrist making it last longer than he’s prepared for and he growls something long and dangerous.
He’s up to this.
Withdrawing and distracting him with a kiss that pushes him haphazardly back until he’s caught between her and a wall. She steadies him, hands on his hips, and laughs, deep and throaty, at his expression.
Hands moving up his body, touching and caressing each angle and curve, she lets her nails scratch over the day of growth on his cheeks. She kisses him again, forcing his head back onto the wall as her fingers edge over the cool metal frames of his glasses, into his hair and begin to tug lightly.
When her hands alight on his glasses, intent on removing another of the barriers between them, he stops her with a hand on her wrist. “I’m using those.”
Her lips make an ‘o’ shape but no sound comes out because she’s distracted by the hand that’s managed, in those few seconds of lost concentration, to drag the zipper of her pants down and slide in between the denim and the cotton of her knickers, beginning to stroke. She’ll be damned if she’s going to waste time asking why he wants to wear his glasses.
His mouth closes around her lower lip as she threads together a little control, teeth just grazing the flesh, she forces her mind onto the buttons of his shirt. She starts low, fingers fumbling but eventually finding some small success as the first button slides free. Her hands keep getting caught between them, their bodies pressing close enough that her hands dig into his stomach or ribs but it’s okay, because tonight he likes it a little rough and the sound of a button being torn away doesn’t even provoke a grumble of disapproval. She knows the aggression she’s using is going to leave bruises and while when this began she was fully intent of rewarding him for a hard day at work, for being the dedicated man she fell for, now she can’t help but feel an aspect of punishment present in her fingertips.
She kisses him hard again, pouring whatever pent up emotion she has into it and she’s almost as startled as he at the near-anger she’s radiating. He feels it as much as she does and wrenches his lips from hers to mumble a disjointed question of ‘why?’.
Giving up on the remaining buttons, she pushes him back onto the wall; she hears something crack, and it could be the wall or a joint or his back, she doesn’t care. Her teeth scratch up his cheek, over the five o’clock shadow, her face buried in the mess of his hair as she anchors herself. “You need to look after yourself,” she grumbles.
“That’s your job,” he mumbles back, evidently lost somewhere between the conversation and the action.
Hands gripping either side of his head, not painful, but not tender either, she stares at him, watching his eyes darken behind the glass lenses. “Sometimes you need to say it’s enough work and take a day off, take a breath, treat yourself to a few moments reprieve.” He nods but she’s not convinced he’s agreeing with her. He still looks tired and strained, standing there in a half undone shirt and spectacles, but at least like this he looks alive.
He must see something in her, worry maybe, because his own stare softens and his body relaxes; a small half-smile as he concedes defeat and nods. “We’ll talk,” he says and she believes him, “For now, this is what makes everything else bearable.” his fingers have dipped under the shirt she’s wearing and he’s caressing her skin.
She’s always been amazed at how quickly he can set her at ease. She believes they’ll talk, thinks this is progress, looks at him and is happy to see his smile returning hers. As his hands tug her shirt over her head and a breath of air escapes his lungs as the unexpected sight of her naked form beneath, the worry and the anger leave her and she leans in to kiss him, pressing her naked breasts against him.
“Not here,” he mumbles and his hands splay across her hips. She relaxes, having let him use this trick a couple of times before. It’s a slow dance, instinctive, the way they get from where ever they start to the bedroom. She closes her eyes and lets her lips find that spot on his neck, licking and biting as he steps forward, her feet moving with his. Looking over her shoulder, he can see where they’re going and she can trust him enough to get there. What seems like moments later, she gasps in surprise as her knees hit the bed and she tumbles back onto the sheets, his fingers slipping under her undone jeans and knickers at her hips and pulling them off before she can recover from the distracting way the bed smells of him.
He stands over her and as she sits up on her elbows she can see he’s still wearing pretty much all of his clothes, looking decent if you ignore the three buttons undone or missing at the bottom and the lipstick stain on the collar. It makes her smile that she can be naked, he can be dressed, and it all feel completely natural. The glasses, however, are making frissons of nervous energy tingle across her skin as his gaze crawls over her breasts, his vision looking sharper than the usual lust-induced glaze.
Resisting the urge to continue to look, to make her squirm, he crawls onto the bed, hovering over her on his knees with one hand on the mattress and one in her hair. Moving close, he moves down her neck, lips wide, mouth hot and the sudden smooth contact of not-sweaty glasses frames reminding her again that they’re there. She wonders if that really means he can see her better, considers if it means he can take more of her in with each look. Then his lips suddenly jump to her breast and she forgets about glasses, quickly dismisses thoughts of how he took control of a night meant to be about him and can only feel the sharp electricity of his teeth scratching lightly around a nipple, his tongue flicking hotly across it.
He doesn’t waste time after that, his free hand snaking down her body to between her legs and he knows she wants him, that his tongue on her neck and breasts and in her mouth has made her wet and hot and unbearably desperate and if he’d just open his eyes he’d be able to see her through his glasses. Maybe a trick of his mind, but sharper and brighter than before: more of her to see.
So he moves down, teeth nipping and licking a direct trail over her bellybutton, across soft flesh, nose and mouth pressing into her thigh and breathing in. His hands move swiftly to her hips, catching her eyes in the process and smiling at her from behind the glasses, that dirty, wicked smile that begins as something held-back, tight thin lips, giving way to the flash of white teeth, darkened eyes and the tip of his tongue sliding to rest, just visible, at the corner of his bottom lip.
And by the time she’s transfixed by this, the two seconds it takes, his hands have caressed down, relaxed her thighs and suddenly, without warning, he’s pushing them wide and sliding his tongue inside her.
He wastes no time on formality having done this countless times to Rose. An oral fixation and the love of a lifetime make for a good combination, he’s realized. His tongue sweeps over her, teasing, light, compared to his first penetrating swipe, and she squirms in response, urging him with an arched back and lifted hips. Hands still stroking up her thighs and down to cup her arse, he traces out her name and then his with his tongue, punctuating his letters with a gentle breath or a nudge of his nose or the bizarre feel of his glasses knocking against her until she’s panting and mewling intermittently. The touch of his lips to her flesh makes her realize that there’s more to come and her own mouth falls open as she whispers his name, an invitation to him to return to her mouth and let her return the favor. But he ignores it and she feels him start whispering against her.
And, oh god, this drives her crazy, the combination of the movement of lips and tongue and breath against her with the knowledge that he’s talking and then what he’s talking about all too often pushing her over the edge. Again, her name, whispered as the tip of his tongue flicks at her just there and she groans a little too loudly, her skin flushing red for a number of reasons. “Please,” she begs, legs spreading wider, hips rocking up until she couldn’t offer him a more obvious indulgence and his mouth responding, a chuckle that starts low in his throat but ends up vibrating through her obscenely. A second later, he’s managed to slip a finger inside her, curling it in that way he knows she loves and then stroking in time with the flick of his tongue. Her body eager for release, she’s wet and hot and when a second fingers slides inside she bucks, now so, so close to the edge that they both know it will only take a carefully placed lap of his tongue to finish her.
And that’s when he stops; as her hips follow his mouth up and up and she whimpers, her knuckles white where she’s gripping the sheets and she begs him, not like a moment before when she just wanted to come, now her plea says she belongs to him and he can do what he likes. It’s the best sound in the world. “Peter, please.”
But he’s stopped, he’s pulled his mouth away, his hands away and when she finally gives in, her hands unfurling, her arched body falling back to the mattress with a thump and an angry sigh escaping her lips, he just grins lazily. He sits back on his knees between her bent legs and lets a hand rest on each of her calves, his thumbs drawing circles across the backs of them.
She chances a glance at him and would laugh if she were in any other kind of situation. His glasses are askew, one side unhooked from his ear and his hair has all been pushed to the right making him look like he’s spent the night asleep against the floor. She looks closer, noting, if she’s not mistaken, that those specs are rather fogged up and finally he’s not able to stare at her like he can see the pulse of her blood beneath her skin.
What she doesn’t realize is that the taste of her is intoxicating and he’s feeling just a little bit drunk. That him not being able to see is probably a good thing for both of them because if he could it would no doubt be sensory overload.
Not that that prospect is a cause for concern for him. Pulling his glasses off, he plans only to wipe them clean on his shirt and then kiss her until she whimpers when his fingers encounter a liquid too viscous to be simple condensed air on the lens. He freezes, wondering if she’s noticed, wondering if that’s just a little bit too weird for her: that he was wearing glasses and he was that close to her. But she’s still watching him, unaware, and quickly he keeps moving, wiping the lenses clean on the cotton of his shirt and then replacing his glasses on the bridge of his nose.
She’s too fuzzy to pick up on the fact that the two fingers of his left hand have spent the latter part of this action stuck out like he was drinking out of a posh tea cup.
And now he’s taken too long staring because she lets out an exaggerated sigh, half playful, half frustrated and plops back on to the mattress, hoping to entice him with the very inviting splay of her body.
She doesn’t see it but in those seconds of arching back onto the bed and letting her body beg, he’s rather too busy sucking his fingers into his mouth and trying not to groan at that last taste to notice her.
Now, he looks at her: she’s up on her elbows, glaring at him, hair messy, lips red and a trickle of sweat moving down her neck, between her breasts. She’s utterly beautiful and he’s taking a moment to remember that.
She’s begun staring back, looking at him and trying to keep the contempt for his choice of pause in her eyes, but he simply looks too adorable, too innocent. Which is a silly thought, really, that he looks too innocent. But if you take the suit and the tie and the glasses, they are innocent, they’re refined, they contrast completely to what he’s just been doing with his tongue. And besides that his shirt’s half untucked and sticking to his sweat-slicked back, his pants have slipped low on his hips, the sewing of the clasp snapped by brute force at some point so it’s just the obnoxious zipper keeping them up. One pant leg’s been pulled up his leg ridiculously - they’re such snug pants that the hem’s too tight to get over the knee - but it’s enough that she could feel the contraction and heat and scratchiness of his calf muscle under her foot when he was kissing her and that’s what she’d wanted.
Of course his shoes are still on because they’re always too much trouble to get off. The tie’s been pulled free of the shirt but somehow the knot’s gotten too tight to undo so it’s just hanging around his neck, the arrow of material leading down his half exposed chest twisted into something that doesn’t look anything like a tie.
She gets that far and then he seems to have had enough of torturing her by doing nothing, his hands sliding down to her feet to give a light tickle before pushing back off the bed and, without ceremony, attacking his shoe laces. It takes him longer than they’d like but eventually he’s kicking them away and pushing his pants and boxer briefs to the floor. She watches him with a sly grin, impressed to see him obviously ready for her and a second later he’s crossed back to the edge of the bed.
“You gonna take your glasses off now?” she asks in that playful manner she always used to bely the desperation coursing through her.
“Nope,” he answers, obviously distracted by the difficult task of getting rid of his shirt and tie. Now naked, he looks down and she flushes at the way he continues to look at her. Just as she is about to demand he get on with it, he speaks, “Can we try something?”
To Be Continued Very Soon.
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