[ His hands jump on her skin - just a brief flinch, easy enough to miss even in spite of that full contact - as if some sharp, electric current has shot through him there at his fingertips. It is like that, though, when she (gives him permission) makes her demand, leaving it open to interpretation but not to any kind of chance. Not with that please echoing in his ears, sweet and thick as molasses, and the edge of confidence her control instills. He isn't assuming or chasing after ghosts, here - the one place where certainty settles over him, instead. She leaves him options, but no room for the indistinct. No misinterpretation, though he still thinks of missteps, even as he forges ahead.
Both of their hands are calloused and rough, if in different places, but he considers his own the worse for the wear; wielding a sword leaves more of his palms vulnerable to it than making a fist does hers. So he's careful as he goes, though the firm shape of muscle that more than rivals his own strength is close beneath the smooth skin of her thighs, warmer and softer the higher his hands slide. The edge of her skirt detours him around for a moment, short and insensible but in this case very convenient - but he sees no reason to hurry past that barrier, as per her fairly loose instruction. His fingertips map that last vestige of exposed skin very thoroughly, down to the bartop and then back up to the tops of her thighs - pausing there, before slipping down between them, under the thin layer of dyed black leather and toward the hem of plain white cotton or whatever she's wearing, today (he doesn't go through her drawers, anymore), toward the outline of softer skin and more of that trusting vulnerability.
His lips brush the cusp of her ear as he turns his head, thinks to look down at what he's doing lest he badly miss his own intentions, now (whatever they are, he's still plotting that map). A breath brushes aside a few stray strands of dark hair. His heart catches somewhere high in his throat, and he swallows deliberately to knock it back down. ]
no subject
Both of their hands are calloused and rough, if in different places, but he considers his own the worse for the wear; wielding a sword leaves more of his palms vulnerable to it than making a fist does hers. So he's careful as he goes, though the firm shape of muscle that more than rivals his own strength is close beneath the smooth skin of her thighs, warmer and softer the higher his hands slide. The edge of her skirt detours him around for a moment, short and insensible but in this case very convenient - but he sees no reason to hurry past that barrier, as per her fairly loose instruction. His fingertips map that last vestige of exposed skin very thoroughly, down to the bartop and then back up to the tops of her thighs - pausing there, before slipping down between them, under the thin layer of dyed black leather and toward the hem of plain white cotton or whatever she's wearing, today (he doesn't go through her drawers, anymore), toward the outline of softer skin and more of that trusting vulnerability.
His lips brush the cusp of her ear as he turns his head, thinks to look down at what he's doing lest he badly miss his own intentions, now (whatever they are, he's still plotting that map). A breath brushes aside a few stray strands of dark hair. His heart catches somewhere high in his throat, and he swallows deliberately to knock it back down. ]
...There?