[She's far too sensitive to him, far too easily lost, pulled under, into a world that's just his eyes and his touch. She knows it. She had thought it would be easier, once they were together, that he wouldn't inhale near her and, entirely unaware he had, turn her knees into jelly or stand a certain way and make her forget she wasn't supposed to stop everything she was doing just to watch - but no. Now that she knows what his touch feels like it's just worse and she hopes, deep in the secret heart of her, that it never gets better. Already he has her heart beating, slow and thick in her chest and the simple trail of his fingers, so soft, so gentle, over her trails little sparks, flickers of flame that skitter down through her muscles and grow as they spread.
She loves the way he touches her.
She loves the rough times, the fast times - but she loves the times he cherishes her, treats her as if he's amazed they're together and she's his. That he's hers.
...it always breaks her heart just a little too.
The tease along the hem of her skirt has her head bowing forward a little, has her lips parting for silent inhales between them, something wonderful and dangerous in the sight of his hands on her bare skin and she has to swallow as well when those long fingers glide under the fabric of her skirt, small shivers under her muscles, through her stomach and lower, rising up through her chest, a barely there jerk in her thighs that isn't protest or rejection. Against his back, one of her hands flexes but she's not allowed to touch yet herself. This is his moment and the almost silent sound slips out of her on an exhale as his lips brush her ear, her wine dark eyes finally closing as thistle down tickles down her throat at that contact, at the feather brush of his breath. She cheats, just a little, hand lifting to rest, light, against the back of his neck and the short riot of sunshine bright hair that starts upward there.]
Yes. [it's a whisper and she wets her suddenly dry lips before nodding, an unrhythmic move of her head a few times to make sure it's clear. A new part of their game perhaps and she's more than willing to play guide. Soft, her fingers stroke the warmth of his neck, just once. The second time the longing slips in.] Yes, Cloud.
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She loves the way he touches her.
She loves the rough times, the fast times - but she loves the times he cherishes her, treats her as if he's amazed they're together and she's his. That he's hers.
...it always breaks her heart just a little too.
The tease along the hem of her skirt has her head bowing forward a little, has her lips parting for silent inhales between them, something wonderful and dangerous in the sight of his hands on her bare skin and she has to swallow as well when those long fingers glide under the fabric of her skirt, small shivers under her muscles, through her stomach and lower, rising up through her chest, a barely there jerk in her thighs that isn't protest or rejection. Against his back, one of her hands flexes but she's not allowed to touch yet herself. This is his moment and the almost silent sound slips out of her on an exhale as his lips brush her ear, her wine dark eyes finally closing as thistle down tickles down her throat at that contact, at the feather brush of his breath. She cheats, just a little, hand lifting to rest, light, against the back of his neck and the short riot of sunshine bright hair that starts upward there.]
Yes. [it's a whisper and she wets her suddenly dry lips before nodding, an unrhythmic move of her head a few times to make sure it's clear. A new part of their game perhaps and she's more than willing to play guide. Soft, her fingers stroke the warmth of his neck, just once. The second time the longing slips in.] Yes, Cloud.