Fic: Physical Tension
Title: Physical Tension
Rating: MA
Summary: PWP, just a bit of fun and silliness but hopefully still pretty steamy.
Pairing: Rose/Ten
Spoilers: None that I know of.
Disclaimer: I don't own them, quite obviously.
A/N: Haven’t written for about a billion years and this, admittedly, has been sitting on my hard drive for several months. But I’ve finally put it all together and may as well post it so you can all (hopefully) enjoy it. With any luck, I’ll keep finding the time to write.
There were just some things he didn’t do. As old as he was, as intelligent as he was, the kind of man he was…when someone started giggling at the purple mark on his neck, he did not turn a fetching shade of pink and deny the obvious.
Except he did. Three times that day. And he denied it very badly. To a cheeky waitress who over-stepped the mark, to the trio of teenage girls on the bus and then, of all people, to Rose’s mother.
And that was why he came home, not precisely sulking, but close.
“I won’t do it again.” And she knew that wasn’t what he wanted to hear: he of course thought it was what he wanted to hear but as soon as it was out of her mouth, smile playing there, him wondering why, it was obvious that this wasn’t what he wanted.
He shook his head, already some thin line of forgiveness circling. “Just don’t do it where everyone can see it,” he revised.
She was playing it a little too coy, her foot on the verge of making demure circles on the ground. “You didn’t say stop at the time…”
He held up a hand, lips quirking up, “Just not where your mother can see it.”
“Don’t you own a turtleneck?”
“No.”
“And you couldn’t have worn your collar up because…”
His voice went defensive and high-pitched, a little extreme: “Do I look like one of those ridiculous men with the fast cars and the gold chains?”
She tilted her head and it was obvious she was concocting an answer best to press more of his buttons.
His other hand came up to join the first, flat palmed in the air creating an invisible barrier, a no-go zone. “Not where people can see them.”
She nodded, still coy, demure and he didn’t believe it for a second but all of a sudden she was looking at him strangely, a smile and a quirked eyebrow. “Bed time?”
He grinned and nodded, fitting her hand into his and leading her from the room.
***
She’s playful tonight, leading, taking charge, all of that, and who is he to argue. Pulls every piece of clothing from him and gives him an approving once over before quickly throwing her own clothes in a heap near the door. Hands on his chest she pushes him back on the bed and it’s only the giggle escaping her lips and the way she half trips on one of his shoes that ruins the fantasy.
Reality, at this very moment in time and space, seems better anyway. She falls on top of him, lips and hands quickly finding any skin she didn’t manage to touch as she pulled his clothes away and quickly setting him on edge. And then she backs off, covers the ground she’s already paid ample attention to and quickly frustrating the hell out of him. She straddles one leg - not both because that would be progress, that would be closer - and lets her breasts brush over his chest as she kisses him without pretense, forceful and taking and he responds, head moving up and off the bed to keep their lips locked as she pulls back.
Finding that spot just behind his ear and murmuring something unintelligible but certainly filthy and breathy, licking just there. He bucks and she makes sure that the momentum carries the underside of his length against her leg eliciting a gravelly groan.
And the amount of time she’s made him wait makes it worse than it should be and suddenly it’s the be all and end all, the point where it becomes impossible not to beg and he doesn’t exactly not like it, because the way she moves, any man would be begging - on his knees, begging. So it’s excusable that, as she slides her lips to his neck, his own move to her ear, unable to keep from muttering the number of times he’s going to make her pay for this, telling her how and when and then just resorting to murmuring how good she is, saying ‘please’ over and over and then telling her she is going to hell for what she puts him through.
So with a hand in her hair, her body pressed to his, she slips down until she’s poised above his stomach, hands resting on his hips and her tongue swirling in a wide arc around his belly button, nose teasing down the trail of hair and all the while, the back of her knuckles have started brushing up and down flesh what is now straining under his skin. He wants to be inside her, coming hard, now.
She murmurs something that he doesn’t hear, distracted by the feel of breath creeping lower across his abdomen. “What?” he asks, knowing full well he’s not allowed to ignore her comments.
Her lips quirk up in a smile as she presses her lips to the sharp ridge of his hip and then rests her chin there, looking up at him. “I am sorry about the hickey. I didn’t mean for it to show up quite so blatantly.”
Sincere, or so it sounds, and while she may be sorry, she certainly meant it when she did it. He just shakes his head dismissively, because really, this isn’t the time to be talking about hickies.
“I won’t do it again,” she says teasingly.
Ah, so that’s what she’s playing at; he’d do best to ignore this game, pull her up and kiss her until she’s as indulgently fuzzy as he: stop the games. “Probably a good idea.”
She’s trailing her forefinger up the bone of his hip, staring at it intently, her cheek flat against the crease between thigh and torso, all tantalizingly close, but not close enough: very frustrating. “No more teeth.”
“No more teeth,” he agrees.
Her hand carefully, slowly wraps around his length: finally, proper contact, and she slowly begins to stroke. With Rose the way she looks at him, the way she speaks gets him as hot as any foreplay, the foreplay - the gentle touches, licks, kisses - are as hot as sex, and then the sex…the sex is mind-blowing, so often they don’t even get to the sex and if she keeps touching him like this…eyes on his, watching with an intelligence he usually doesn’t like seeing anywhere but in the mirror…well…
She strokes up and down with that perfect pace and pressure that only practice brings, cheek laid flat on his hip, breath playing across his stomach and her bottom lip caught between her teeth. She murmurs something and a frustrated sigh makes his stomach rise and fall so she repeats: “Thinking about it, didn’t we agree I could use my teeth so long as it wasn’t on skin my mum was likely to see?”
Getting frustrated now because her hand’s tightening, strokes too good for his body to ignore and yet he’s caught up setting boundaries and for once in his life he really just wants to shut up. He bites out a response, a hand finding her cheek and trying to coerce her up to meet him. “Yes, Rose, and if you’re quite done negotiating, would you mind getting up here.”
She sends him a wicked grin and his face falls as he wonders what it is he just put his foot in. Her tongue darts across his hip, back down and she scrambles for a moment to get his legs straddled beneath her. But she doesn’t crawl up like he asked, keeps her mouth against his thigh and then, as her hand stills on his length, dares to lick a little too harshly across the head.
He yelps her name and she just grins as her lips envelop the tip of him and slide a few inches down, tongue swirling in random patterns as it gets hotter and wetter and he shuts his eyes and tries very hard to remember why he shouldn’t just come in her mouth and be happy about it.
Humming her pleasure as his hips buck up she lets her hands run rampant up his body, tugging lightly at his skin before coming to rest on his hips, the sharp bone so obvious under the skin, rocking under her touch tellingly.
He yelps her name again, this time in shock as her lips pop away with that wet sound that sets his nerves on end and with a hand holding his, catching between them as she starts to ascend he remembers the urge to bury himself inside her, wet and snug and perfect and forgets what’s going on, just starts living in the future, the future of fucking her properly and in just a few moments time and…
“Bloody Hell!” he shrieks and if he had the mental capacity he’d be embarrassed by how high pitched that was but her mouth has made a pit-stop and her teeth have found the sharp hip bone she’s so very fond of and she’s bitten down, surely hard enough to break the blood vessels beneath the skin and there’s suction, soft and then hard sucking and biting and the lap of a tongue hot and wet and he can’t quite decide if this is unbelievably unusual pleasure he’s feeling or simple, pure pain.
And then it ends with a wet press of her lips to the mark and the rush of cool air as she slides up his body. He’s harder now than he was before, straining under her weight to get somewhere, anywhere, and she wastes no time sinking down on top of him and settling, stopping, waiting for him to catch up with events.
His eyes open and lock with hers, his convey shock, hers convey cheek and as she kisses him and rocks against him he can feel more adrenaline in his system than usual, coursing through blood that’s running fast in his veins. Her hips rock into his and he has to kiss her hard to stop from moaning as a sharp pain shoots out where her hips hit his, the clotting bruise beneath the skin setting his nerves alight with pain - her hips keep moving, the pain in rhythm with the thrusts, dulling as the pleasure builds until it’s mingled and mounted and he likes that feeling. Likes that she put it there, all of it, and that nerves are nerves and all over he feels like he’s on fire now and like he’s hers because nothing he will ever say or do is going to stop her doing these insane, primal things, branding him as hers.
And he’s kidding himself if he thinks this is going to last, that he’ll be able to draw it out and play mind games with her; she gets like this and he hasn’t got a chance.
His hands, strangely lying dormant at his sides, move suddenly and directly, one to her breasts and the other slipping quickly down her stomach, between them, sliding carelessly over himself and her, awkward and searching and she pushes herself up to give him access, leaning heavily on his chest and then moving her hands to either side of his head.
He grins wildly at her; at the new angle, the new pressure and the way his fingers can curl between them and make her suddenly squirm involuntarily and swear under her breath. He thrusts up and it almost makes him lose it. Keeps his hands on her, watches her breathing become ever more erratic with each stroke, the rolling of her hips against his harder and less measured but the contact increasing.
And that’s when she untangles her hands from his hair and reaches down, grasping his hips tightly and making sure that her thumb’s pressed against the angry purple bruise that runs along the inside of the bone, pressing hard enough for it to hurt in that way that pain hurts when you’re so alive with pleasure.
His lips curve around a growl and he tugs at a nipple in retribution, eliciting a moan from her that’s a little reckless and still a little playful. Forefinger joins thumb and she gives the bruise a pinch: he can only imagine what it’ll look like in the morning and the curve of her lips against his, smug smirk, means enough is enough.
He pulls out, hands grabbing at her hips and suddenly he’s all lean hidden strength, more than she can compete with and she knows it as he lifts her clean away from him, pushing her to the left, hands racing across her back and ass, grabbing at her skin and placing just enough pressure to make sure she stays still, head down into the pillow beside him, hands gripping at the sheets by her sides as he pulls himself up and straddles the back of one of her legs, forcing them to part with his knee. And now she looks.
Shocked at the turn of events she sees the glint in his eyes as his hands start running up and down her back, his other leg moving to join the other between hers, forcing her legs wider. His hands caress down to her thighs, his fingers wrapping around, holding her there for a moment as he braces his toes against the mattress, quite aware that if this move goes wrong this dominating, primal man is going to look extremely stupid.
In one swift move his grip on her thighs pulls her up and back and he propels himself those few inches forward, his knees spreading, her legs held back over his, pressed to his sides and her neck straining from where she’s balanced on her elbows so that she can watch. Effortlessly, the angle, the position perfect, he slides inside her, hard and fast and now he can’t stop moving.
She lets out a barely muffled groan and she’s as close as him: her eyes are shut and the cotton of the pillow’s caught between her teeth even as she forces her body up, fingers clawing at the wooden headboard until she’s found enough purchase to push back into his every stroke and it feels superb.
Bending over her, forcing skin to skin and changing the angle he speeds up, eager to finish, eager to take her with him and desperate now. His lips find her spine, kissing and sucking and leaving a wetter trail among the rivulets of sweat. Up and across, a shoulder blade and then the other, admiring with his tongue the way she curves and arches back to meet his mouth and his thrusts, can feel the shudder of muscle and blood and he drives into her.
She’s close, he call feel it in the trembling and so is he, a wet helpless lap up her neck and his lips dart across her ear, tracing the outer shell, sucking on the lobe and growling into her ear that he loves her like this, in the throes of ecstasy, damp and owned and desperate to come. She just nods back and grinds against him, whimpering.
Lips back to her shoulder, the edge of the bone, just resting, breathing, concentrating on keeping his hips in synch. He lets his tongue stroke in time, pressed his teeth and lips into the flesh with every stroke in, almost leaving her skin entirely with every stroke out. He watches as her hands grip tighter and feels her tensing, anticipating.
And that’s when he bites down. As hard as he dares, his teeth into the back of her shoulder and he hopes to god it’s not too hard, hopes he hasn’t broken the rules and gone and hurt her and for the smallest of instants he’s stuck in that limbo of not knowing and holding, hesitating for a second, half inside her, half out and with her flesh caught between lips and teeth, tongue resting against it hot and salty.
Then he hears her cry out, high pitched and drawn and it’s ecstasy. Seconds later he feels her clenching around him, pulling him into her until he’s buried there and she’s coming hard enough that the simple feel of it drags him with her and as his hips press closer, his teeth are torn away from her skin and he spills himself, short, hard thrusts keeping her with him as he empties inside her, keeping her swearing and moaning as it goes on and on and it feels like eternity and a moment all at once.
Sated and lost, gravity is remembered and they fall into a heap, his body a deadweight she manages to ignore as the last brushes of pleasure flow through her, a wide grin settling on her lips in the afterglow. It’s only when she realizes she can hardly breathe that she wriggles and he quickly rolls to the side, collapsing again in a mess of sticky limps.
She rolls into him, back fitting into the curve of his side, head finding his arm and resting there, looking at the wall as she commits the encounter to memory.
She likes surprising him. She likes it more when he surprises her back.
Her hands find his, intertwining as he pulls the sheet up over their hips, seemingly content to leave the rest of her exposed. She’s not sure and she doesn’t want to look but she thinks he’s staring at her. She flexes her shoulder and hears him swallow behind her, the reaction making her smile and wonder.
Staring at her naked back he sees the mess he’s made. Her hair’s tangled and the wisps at the nape are curling into ringlets. There’s a faint sheen of sweat on her back, sweat and saliva and that tangy scent of sex. And there on her shoulder the most definite mark of him, the indent of both his top and bottom teeth, all of the incisors and possibly the canines as well, he can’t quite tell and he’s unsure if they’ll show up better with time. Beneath the indentation the skin’s blossoming red and purple, as sure as ever, as undeniable as ever and, he thinks, it quite plainly means two things. One he’s known for a while now, and one that he has not.
Firstly, that she is unconditionally his. And secondly, that she won’t be wearing any singlet tops around to her mother’s place for a while.
Comments and con-crit would be brilliant.
Rating: MA
Summary: PWP, just a bit of fun and silliness but hopefully still pretty steamy.
Pairing: Rose/Ten
Spoilers: None that I know of.
Disclaimer: I don't own them, quite obviously.
A/N: Haven’t written for about a billion years and this, admittedly, has been sitting on my hard drive for several months. But I’ve finally put it all together and may as well post it so you can all (hopefully) enjoy it. With any luck, I’ll keep finding the time to write.
There were just some things he didn’t do. As old as he was, as intelligent as he was, the kind of man he was…when someone started giggling at the purple mark on his neck, he did not turn a fetching shade of pink and deny the obvious.
Except he did. Three times that day. And he denied it very badly. To a cheeky waitress who over-stepped the mark, to the trio of teenage girls on the bus and then, of all people, to Rose’s mother.
And that was why he came home, not precisely sulking, but close.
“I won’t do it again.” And she knew that wasn’t what he wanted to hear: he of course thought it was what he wanted to hear but as soon as it was out of her mouth, smile playing there, him wondering why, it was obvious that this wasn’t what he wanted.
He shook his head, already some thin line of forgiveness circling. “Just don’t do it where everyone can see it,” he revised.
She was playing it a little too coy, her foot on the verge of making demure circles on the ground. “You didn’t say stop at the time…”
He held up a hand, lips quirking up, “Just not where your mother can see it.”
“Don’t you own a turtleneck?”
“No.”
“And you couldn’t have worn your collar up because…”
His voice went defensive and high-pitched, a little extreme: “Do I look like one of those ridiculous men with the fast cars and the gold chains?”
She tilted her head and it was obvious she was concocting an answer best to press more of his buttons.
His other hand came up to join the first, flat palmed in the air creating an invisible barrier, a no-go zone. “Not where people can see them.”
She nodded, still coy, demure and he didn’t believe it for a second but all of a sudden she was looking at him strangely, a smile and a quirked eyebrow. “Bed time?”
He grinned and nodded, fitting her hand into his and leading her from the room.
***
She’s playful tonight, leading, taking charge, all of that, and who is he to argue. Pulls every piece of clothing from him and gives him an approving once over before quickly throwing her own clothes in a heap near the door. Hands on his chest she pushes him back on the bed and it’s only the giggle escaping her lips and the way she half trips on one of his shoes that ruins the fantasy.
Reality, at this very moment in time and space, seems better anyway. She falls on top of him, lips and hands quickly finding any skin she didn’t manage to touch as she pulled his clothes away and quickly setting him on edge. And then she backs off, covers the ground she’s already paid ample attention to and quickly frustrating the hell out of him. She straddles one leg - not both because that would be progress, that would be closer - and lets her breasts brush over his chest as she kisses him without pretense, forceful and taking and he responds, head moving up and off the bed to keep their lips locked as she pulls back.
Finding that spot just behind his ear and murmuring something unintelligible but certainly filthy and breathy, licking just there. He bucks and she makes sure that the momentum carries the underside of his length against her leg eliciting a gravelly groan.
And the amount of time she’s made him wait makes it worse than it should be and suddenly it’s the be all and end all, the point where it becomes impossible not to beg and he doesn’t exactly not like it, because the way she moves, any man would be begging - on his knees, begging. So it’s excusable that, as she slides her lips to his neck, his own move to her ear, unable to keep from muttering the number of times he’s going to make her pay for this, telling her how and when and then just resorting to murmuring how good she is, saying ‘please’ over and over and then telling her she is going to hell for what she puts him through.
So with a hand in her hair, her body pressed to his, she slips down until she’s poised above his stomach, hands resting on his hips and her tongue swirling in a wide arc around his belly button, nose teasing down the trail of hair and all the while, the back of her knuckles have started brushing up and down flesh what is now straining under his skin. He wants to be inside her, coming hard, now.
She murmurs something that he doesn’t hear, distracted by the feel of breath creeping lower across his abdomen. “What?” he asks, knowing full well he’s not allowed to ignore her comments.
Her lips quirk up in a smile as she presses her lips to the sharp ridge of his hip and then rests her chin there, looking up at him. “I am sorry about the hickey. I didn’t mean for it to show up quite so blatantly.”
Sincere, or so it sounds, and while she may be sorry, she certainly meant it when she did it. He just shakes his head dismissively, because really, this isn’t the time to be talking about hickies.
“I won’t do it again,” she says teasingly.
Ah, so that’s what she’s playing at; he’d do best to ignore this game, pull her up and kiss her until she’s as indulgently fuzzy as he: stop the games. “Probably a good idea.”
She’s trailing her forefinger up the bone of his hip, staring at it intently, her cheek flat against the crease between thigh and torso, all tantalizingly close, but not close enough: very frustrating. “No more teeth.”
“No more teeth,” he agrees.
Her hand carefully, slowly wraps around his length: finally, proper contact, and she slowly begins to stroke. With Rose the way she looks at him, the way she speaks gets him as hot as any foreplay, the foreplay - the gentle touches, licks, kisses - are as hot as sex, and then the sex…the sex is mind-blowing, so often they don’t even get to the sex and if she keeps touching him like this…eyes on his, watching with an intelligence he usually doesn’t like seeing anywhere but in the mirror…well…
She strokes up and down with that perfect pace and pressure that only practice brings, cheek laid flat on his hip, breath playing across his stomach and her bottom lip caught between her teeth. She murmurs something and a frustrated sigh makes his stomach rise and fall so she repeats: “Thinking about it, didn’t we agree I could use my teeth so long as it wasn’t on skin my mum was likely to see?”
Getting frustrated now because her hand’s tightening, strokes too good for his body to ignore and yet he’s caught up setting boundaries and for once in his life he really just wants to shut up. He bites out a response, a hand finding her cheek and trying to coerce her up to meet him. “Yes, Rose, and if you’re quite done negotiating, would you mind getting up here.”
She sends him a wicked grin and his face falls as he wonders what it is he just put his foot in. Her tongue darts across his hip, back down and she scrambles for a moment to get his legs straddled beneath her. But she doesn’t crawl up like he asked, keeps her mouth against his thigh and then, as her hand stills on his length, dares to lick a little too harshly across the head.
He yelps her name and she just grins as her lips envelop the tip of him and slide a few inches down, tongue swirling in random patterns as it gets hotter and wetter and he shuts his eyes and tries very hard to remember why he shouldn’t just come in her mouth and be happy about it.
Humming her pleasure as his hips buck up she lets her hands run rampant up his body, tugging lightly at his skin before coming to rest on his hips, the sharp bone so obvious under the skin, rocking under her touch tellingly.
He yelps her name again, this time in shock as her lips pop away with that wet sound that sets his nerves on end and with a hand holding his, catching between them as she starts to ascend he remembers the urge to bury himself inside her, wet and snug and perfect and forgets what’s going on, just starts living in the future, the future of fucking her properly and in just a few moments time and…
“Bloody Hell!” he shrieks and if he had the mental capacity he’d be embarrassed by how high pitched that was but her mouth has made a pit-stop and her teeth have found the sharp hip bone she’s so very fond of and she’s bitten down, surely hard enough to break the blood vessels beneath the skin and there’s suction, soft and then hard sucking and biting and the lap of a tongue hot and wet and he can’t quite decide if this is unbelievably unusual pleasure he’s feeling or simple, pure pain.
And then it ends with a wet press of her lips to the mark and the rush of cool air as she slides up his body. He’s harder now than he was before, straining under her weight to get somewhere, anywhere, and she wastes no time sinking down on top of him and settling, stopping, waiting for him to catch up with events.
His eyes open and lock with hers, his convey shock, hers convey cheek and as she kisses him and rocks against him he can feel more adrenaline in his system than usual, coursing through blood that’s running fast in his veins. Her hips rock into his and he has to kiss her hard to stop from moaning as a sharp pain shoots out where her hips hit his, the clotting bruise beneath the skin setting his nerves alight with pain - her hips keep moving, the pain in rhythm with the thrusts, dulling as the pleasure builds until it’s mingled and mounted and he likes that feeling. Likes that she put it there, all of it, and that nerves are nerves and all over he feels like he’s on fire now and like he’s hers because nothing he will ever say or do is going to stop her doing these insane, primal things, branding him as hers.
And he’s kidding himself if he thinks this is going to last, that he’ll be able to draw it out and play mind games with her; she gets like this and he hasn’t got a chance.
His hands, strangely lying dormant at his sides, move suddenly and directly, one to her breasts and the other slipping quickly down her stomach, between them, sliding carelessly over himself and her, awkward and searching and she pushes herself up to give him access, leaning heavily on his chest and then moving her hands to either side of his head.
He grins wildly at her; at the new angle, the new pressure and the way his fingers can curl between them and make her suddenly squirm involuntarily and swear under her breath. He thrusts up and it almost makes him lose it. Keeps his hands on her, watches her breathing become ever more erratic with each stroke, the rolling of her hips against his harder and less measured but the contact increasing.
And that’s when she untangles her hands from his hair and reaches down, grasping his hips tightly and making sure that her thumb’s pressed against the angry purple bruise that runs along the inside of the bone, pressing hard enough for it to hurt in that way that pain hurts when you’re so alive with pleasure.
His lips curve around a growl and he tugs at a nipple in retribution, eliciting a moan from her that’s a little reckless and still a little playful. Forefinger joins thumb and she gives the bruise a pinch: he can only imagine what it’ll look like in the morning and the curve of her lips against his, smug smirk, means enough is enough.
He pulls out, hands grabbing at her hips and suddenly he’s all lean hidden strength, more than she can compete with and she knows it as he lifts her clean away from him, pushing her to the left, hands racing across her back and ass, grabbing at her skin and placing just enough pressure to make sure she stays still, head down into the pillow beside him, hands gripping at the sheets by her sides as he pulls himself up and straddles the back of one of her legs, forcing them to part with his knee. And now she looks.
Shocked at the turn of events she sees the glint in his eyes as his hands start running up and down her back, his other leg moving to join the other between hers, forcing her legs wider. His hands caress down to her thighs, his fingers wrapping around, holding her there for a moment as he braces his toes against the mattress, quite aware that if this move goes wrong this dominating, primal man is going to look extremely stupid.
In one swift move his grip on her thighs pulls her up and back and he propels himself those few inches forward, his knees spreading, her legs held back over his, pressed to his sides and her neck straining from where she’s balanced on her elbows so that she can watch. Effortlessly, the angle, the position perfect, he slides inside her, hard and fast and now he can’t stop moving.
She lets out a barely muffled groan and she’s as close as him: her eyes are shut and the cotton of the pillow’s caught between her teeth even as she forces her body up, fingers clawing at the wooden headboard until she’s found enough purchase to push back into his every stroke and it feels superb.
Bending over her, forcing skin to skin and changing the angle he speeds up, eager to finish, eager to take her with him and desperate now. His lips find her spine, kissing and sucking and leaving a wetter trail among the rivulets of sweat. Up and across, a shoulder blade and then the other, admiring with his tongue the way she curves and arches back to meet his mouth and his thrusts, can feel the shudder of muscle and blood and he drives into her.
She’s close, he call feel it in the trembling and so is he, a wet helpless lap up her neck and his lips dart across her ear, tracing the outer shell, sucking on the lobe and growling into her ear that he loves her like this, in the throes of ecstasy, damp and owned and desperate to come. She just nods back and grinds against him, whimpering.
Lips back to her shoulder, the edge of the bone, just resting, breathing, concentrating on keeping his hips in synch. He lets his tongue stroke in time, pressed his teeth and lips into the flesh with every stroke in, almost leaving her skin entirely with every stroke out. He watches as her hands grip tighter and feels her tensing, anticipating.
And that’s when he bites down. As hard as he dares, his teeth into the back of her shoulder and he hopes to god it’s not too hard, hopes he hasn’t broken the rules and gone and hurt her and for the smallest of instants he’s stuck in that limbo of not knowing and holding, hesitating for a second, half inside her, half out and with her flesh caught between lips and teeth, tongue resting against it hot and salty.
Then he hears her cry out, high pitched and drawn and it’s ecstasy. Seconds later he feels her clenching around him, pulling him into her until he’s buried there and she’s coming hard enough that the simple feel of it drags him with her and as his hips press closer, his teeth are torn away from her skin and he spills himself, short, hard thrusts keeping her with him as he empties inside her, keeping her swearing and moaning as it goes on and on and it feels like eternity and a moment all at once.
Sated and lost, gravity is remembered and they fall into a heap, his body a deadweight she manages to ignore as the last brushes of pleasure flow through her, a wide grin settling on her lips in the afterglow. It’s only when she realizes she can hardly breathe that she wriggles and he quickly rolls to the side, collapsing again in a mess of sticky limps.
She rolls into him, back fitting into the curve of his side, head finding his arm and resting there, looking at the wall as she commits the encounter to memory.
She likes surprising him. She likes it more when he surprises her back.
Her hands find his, intertwining as he pulls the sheet up over their hips, seemingly content to leave the rest of her exposed. She’s not sure and she doesn’t want to look but she thinks he’s staring at her. She flexes her shoulder and hears him swallow behind her, the reaction making her smile and wonder.
Staring at her naked back he sees the mess he’s made. Her hair’s tangled and the wisps at the nape are curling into ringlets. There’s a faint sheen of sweat on her back, sweat and saliva and that tangy scent of sex. And there on her shoulder the most definite mark of him, the indent of both his top and bottom teeth, all of the incisors and possibly the canines as well, he can’t quite tell and he’s unsure if they’ll show up better with time. Beneath the indentation the skin’s blossoming red and purple, as sure as ever, as undeniable as ever and, he thinks, it quite plainly means two things. One he’s known for a while now, and one that he has not.
Firstly, that she is unconditionally his. And secondly, that she won’t be wearing any singlet tops around to her mother’s place for a while.
Comments and con-crit would be brilliant.