I have you is not meant to be a heavily weighted statement. She knows what Loxley means by it, how these soft-spoken, honeyed words encompass everything from the arm around her to the steady pressure of his fingers to the kisses he has put to her lips and jaw and throat to the pleasure he is working into her, deliberate and thorough and familiar. It is all of these things.
But it is something else too.
Derrica gives over to him. Has been, for longer than just in this moment where she parts her thighs further, uses Loxley's shoulder and the unforgiving brace of the rail to meet that first, shallow thrust of his fingers. The way he knows to touch her, how to draw out a breathless keen of a moan, how to make her body light up—
This expertise hasn't gone unnoticed. Maybe it has just been drawn into clearer focus now, with Loxley's attention so devoted to her. She doesn't say I know. It breaks instead into sound, shuddering through her as she flushes under the combination of Loxley's hands and mouth.
"That's so good," is the first thought she strings together, breathless against the corner of Loxley's mouth. Aware of how intently he is looking at her, and finding little concern rising to meet that consideration. "Your hands are so good, but I still want you."
Eventually. This too lacks urgency, even with Derrica's tone colored through with wanting him.
There's a sound he makes against the column of her throat, inarticulate and unabashedly sexual, as if they really were joined more intimately together than they are now. This feels intimate, though, the cages they form around each other, his hand tucked close and hot between their bodies as he works her.
"I want you," is confirmation, not demand. He did mean it, when he says he has her. There's a subtle tip of his hips, offering himself some sensation in the form of their bodies pressing together, regardless of his hand being in the way. Or being where he wants it. Stroking, pushing deeper, palm pressing to give her something to tip herself against.
A kiss finds the corner of her mouth. "I want you to come just like this," he murmurs, a curl of a smile in his tone, warm. "So beautiful like this, Derrica."
They had done this the first time. After the tournament, in his room, tangled on his bed. He had touched her just as reverently.
The only difference, the only thing that has shifted between them is familiarity. Loxley knows how to touch her. It is worlds away from simply knowing what another person might like, and knowing what they do like. There is something he wants to draw out of her and in this moment, Derrica is aware of how easily he is able to simply do that. Touch her and set her skin on fire.
"Loxley," comes on a gasp, turned in against his mouth in answer. "Not yet."
This cannot last forever. Even this request is at odds with the requests catching in her mouth, wanting more and deeper as much as she wants to keep him held to close, the weight of his body bearing her back into the rail. The wind catches at his hair, stirs the folds of the shawl and the fabric of her skirts. Her nails dig into Loxley's shoulder as she kisses him, finally, properly, as if to impress her request upon him.
The kiss is ardent, hungry, far more intimate than sweetly romantic on a balcony. Not yet, but this isn't instruction to slow, to stop, and Loxley doesn't. He can provide more, deeper, for all that he is perfectly aware that there are so many times they've been together where this might be the moment he pushes himself between her legs, or she rolls them over—
Not yet, and he moves against her again, kiss breaking off in a smear of a sound, maybe her name. Eyes bright, circles of brown-gold and wide pupils.
"More," is gasped so immediately, only to be followed with her hands falling to grasp tight at his shoulders, whole body shuddering as she says, "But not yet, just...just this way. For a little longer."
This is not a place she can stay for long, balancing on a knife's edge of sensation as Loxley moves against her and into her and kisses the moans from her mouth. It is finite and Loxley will tip her out of it in a matter of minutes. Has promised as much.
But it is a good place to be, where the entire world has contracted around them. What else is there but the two of them, locked together as the sunlight fades and night sets in overhead?
The sigh out is only assent, clumsy kisses landing just above her collarbone. Intentionally clumsy, in a way, playing at something or simply allowing for that slip of restraint. She says more and not yet and just this way, and in spite of this last part, and the first, there is a subtle gentling of his efforts, as if he could suspend her here, both of them, hold onto the careful balance between pleasure and release.
Not for long. He nudges her back into a kiss, resuming that preferred pace and pressure as soon as their lips meet. They could make a game of that, if they wanted, but he is too much keyed into meeting her need, into giving her what she wants.
He wants her to give in, wants to hear it in her voice and feel it in the clutch of her hands, but as much, this is what makes that worth it. Feeling her shiver and twitch and flex from simply what his hand is doing, what his mouth encourages. He will do this all night, if she desired it.
The soft entreating catch of his mouth does focus Derrica's attention enough for a kiss. A real kiss, deep and open, as she hangs on to him. But it doesn't last, dissolves as she presses her forehead to his, noses bumping. Her breath comes in shallow gasps, less a kiss than simple contact.
All the intensity of Loxley's focus is nearly a tangible thing. It's impossible not to respond to the intent radiating from him, winding tension tighter and tighter through her body. The collar of his tunic bunches in one hand, though Derrica can't possibly bring him any closer to her.
She does want him closer. Impossibly. It ricochets through her mind, through her body. Derrica makes a soft, pleading noise against Loxley's mouth, and comes apart. Caught between the rail and Loxley's body and the loop of his arm, it's easy to give over to him, let Loxley push her past her breaking point. Holding back never crosses her mind.
Loxley holds her, slowing rather than stopping the things he is doing to draw it all out. He stays closed, pressed in, holding her to him, and it only relaxes when he feels her do so as well. Consciously relaxes, anyway, loosening the loop of his arm around her to trail his hand up her back, his other hand withdrawing slowly, coming to rest low on her hip beneath the fall of her skirts.
He is still keyed in, the feeling of her leg hooked around his and the tug at his shirt, where it's loosened the hem some from his sash. Doing nothing, really, to help himself in either direction, watching her expression with hazy desire as tension unwinds, resolves.
Ducks his head to kiss the corner of her mouth, then again, more direct.
In the moment, as Loxley coaxes her through the crash of sensation, Derrica always thinks that she needs to tell him that she loves this. All the ways he touches her, devotes himself so thoroughly to her. The patience here, that he gives to her—
It is good. It is worlds away from the way she'd allow the strangers she'd fallen into bed with in Kirkwall to do with her. Not that it was ever a choice. None of them could have done this to her.
The first kiss is clumsy, lacking in focus. But clarity comes to her as Loxley kisses her again. The vise of her grip at his neck and shoulders eases, even as she murmurs, "I still want you."
"I'm right here," is playful, as if he doesn't know what she means. He settles his hand on her hip, thumb running along the swoop of muscle, the groove of bone. Loxley gives a contented hum as her hands ease where they grip, the end of his nose nudging the tip of hers. Eases back too, letting her skirts fall back into place, until there is room between again them.
Lifting his hand, licking just the edge of one knuckle, watching her. It is not quite the same look he'd worn when he'd done his little trick with the wine bottle (still securely on the railing, a foot away from them) on account of having just as much played himself. Want, and something softer. But maybe a trace of that. Pleased.
The other hand he has on her plays with a fold of fabric. "How would you want me?"
Her eyes move over his face, track the lift of his knuckle to his mouth. Takes in the expression on his face in turn, attention sharpening past the jolt of heat that comes of watching even that small motion.
Derrica's hands slip down to his chest. At the question, she takes hold of the fabric, gives a little tug.
"Right here," gives way to: "Now."
It is not so descriptive. Maybe not what he had been fishing after, an extension of what he already knows.
"I think you could lift me."
And the balcony would hold. But even if not, she would have him here on the stone floor. The trek back to the narrow apprentice bunks isn't worth it, though there is some undeniable appeal in the lack of space when Loxley has created an objectionable sliver of it between them.
Is not right here, now the platonic ideal of what answer he could possibly be looking for? Or not so platonic. Whatever.
His expression flickers, a sharper and more serious pulse of want, as if he'd been taking some pains to cordon off his own desire in favour of—well, hers. And now there is invitation made plain, and he reaches out to reel them both back into a kiss, hungry and affirming. Yes, he thinks he could lift her too.
When he pushes a hand in between them, this time its to see to himself, the sound of buttons plucked free to open his trousers. He's not sure they've really done it like this, silly jokes about forgetting to take their boots off first and long languid appreciation over naked skin, but this only feels like a part of it all.
Certainly, no two mages got away with this either, on this balcony. Not unless the Templars here were especially permissive, or bad at seeing through their visors.
There is a shade of a joke in this little bit of bartering: they both know Loxley can lift her. This is only a better, more enjoyable set of circumstances for him to demonstrate that expertise.
Maybe it's more hindrance than anything else, but she keeps kissing him. Arched up onto her toes, hands winding into his hair, urging him on with her entire body. Her muscles are still loose, skin over-sensitized, that the bristle of his beard and the upward strain of her body have her shuddering into the kisses she presses to his mouth, and then to his collarbone, his neck, the hollow of his throat, undeterred by the metal of his necklace.
"Loxley," comes muffled against his mouth, as one hand leaves his hair to hike up the fabric of her skirt along one thigh. The shawl has fallen from Derrica's arm, puddled at their feet. Her fingers tighten in his hair, urging him silently in towards her.
There's a wavery sound in reply—sort of an on my way reassurance muffled into kisses as he pushes enough of his trousers aside. Leaving active kisses to her, only making himself available as he gets them situated. Feeling an internal shiver, immediately, at the feeling of her shifting skirts against bare, heated skin, and then her own bare, heated skin, the familiar silken touch of them pressing in closer like this.
He hooks a hand up beneath her more revealed leg, urging her thigh up to hook against his hip. His other hand guides himself to her, against her, no little looks or pauses or any kind of tease at all when it comes to entering her just enough.
Then, lifting. A hand on her thigh, an arm braced around her waist and hand on her ass, encouraging her weight up and on where she can lean back against unyielding stone. It is a sudden intensity, to having gone from vague pressure and trapping cloth to so suddenly inside of her, and his groan out loud is only half-muffled against whatever part of her he can kiss.
The height of the rail is very well-proportioned for their purposes. It's enough leverage, even when she stretches up onto the tips of her toes to facilitate this positioning.
"That's so good," she tells him, breathless with the sensation of it. The immediacy of getting what she'd asked for on the heels of Loxley having already taken her apart once only moments ago is nearly overwhelming. There is nothing else to say but this one thing, as her whole body shudders while she clings tighter to him.
"You feel so good," follows after, equally breathless. Her fingers curl and uncurl into his hair, aware of his mouth hot against her jawline. If she turned her head, she could catch his mouth, but that doesn't feel so urgent. Not yet.
Another muffled, broken off sound follows as he sinks into her deeper, hands hard where he holds her in mirror of the way she'd gripped him. Steadying, both the practical matter of keeping her in place as well as his own patience. That tug to his hair where her fingers slip and catch through his curls is anchoring, too, compelling him to place a more precise feeling kiss high on her throat.
Movement, then, finding a balance between shifting her those crucial fractions as well as his own, the odd constraint of this positioning more compelling than frustrating.
"Fuck," equally is only a mix of relief and pleasure. "Derrica."
A pitchy laugh in answer, breaking at the experimental shift of Loxley's hips. The exertion of this burns all through her, heightening every other sensation looping back and forth between them.
"Yes," is the sort of absent response that gears itself more towards encouragement than as a direct reaction to what he's saying. Yes, more of this. Yes, this is what she wanted.
Her fingers drag through his hair. Between them, Derrica's tenuous balance and Loxley's clutching hands, they find a way to move together. Imprecise, but maybe all the better for it.
"This," she breathes, word catching on a moan. "Just like this."
Perhaps precision isn't what they need. He'd been careful before, devoted to it. This isn't uncareful but it is simpler, pursuing relief as much as pleasure as he moves against her and into her. A smile just felt at her jaw as she laughs, one that tenses sharp at the way her voice sounds when it breaks and hitches.
"You feel good," and Loxley steals a kiss from her when they're next able to meet, "so lovely, Derrica. I've wanted you," and another, "I've wanted you all day."
That seems okay to say, now, brought up hot and sharp in the moment. As though perhaps he'd been counting the seconds until they could be alone. Perhaps he's always counting those seconds. It feels, here, quite true, so close to the edge himself when he's barely started.
Derrica makes a soft sound into his mouth as those words settle. She lifts a hand from her grasping catch at his hair to set her hand to his cheek, steady them just enough to set a deep, lingering kiss to his mouth. It's a silent kind of assurance, because she cannot say the same in return. In truth, she'd been so consumed with nervousness and worry over what the day was meant to hold that it had crowded out most everything else.
When she kisses him a second time, it's for the morning. For the time he'd spent listening to her while she sorted through all the things she could say until she'd parsed what she must say. It was more than a simple kindness. She hums into that kiss, encouraging, as she digs her heel into the back of his thigh.
The touch to his face stills him for that moment, or near enough to still. Receptive to the slower, deeper kiss, replying in kind. Begins to move again at the second press of a kiss, at the press of her heel. There is no twinge of need for the compliment in return (only nearly distractingly handsome, after all), content to press these words into her as lavishly as kisses.
And the next sound he makes is hitched, a deep pulse of pleasure at the root of him. "Derrica," murmured, voice bound tighter in his throat.
His arm shifts, holding her tighter, also doing something to protect her from the edge of the stone railing as he interposes it for the sake of that closeness, longer strokes of movement. A thigh moving, pushing her own thigh up, tilting her ever so slightly more into his mercy, which is only this.
It tips her higher, turns the balance she'd been maintaining tenuous. More a suggestion than anything else; her weight suspended between Loxley and the cold stone. The briefest flicker of tension passes through her body, gains no purchase in the crossing.
It hasn't stopped catching her off guard: Loxley is easy to give over to.
Derrica lets her head fall back, thumb sliding to the corner of his mouth as her opposite hand reclaims a vise grip at his shoulder. Her whole body has gone hot, warmth pooling in her belly, spilling molten through her limbs.
"Perfect," is a gasped fragment, a continuation of a thought beating in her head. She seems to realize that a moment later, as her thumb skims along Loxley's cheek. "This feels so good. You're perfect."
High praise. Easy to fuck up, later, either in a second or a week or a month, but Loxley's thoughts do not stray that complicated. He chases an impulse to turn his head and kiss her hand, his breathing working short and sharp, smeary warmth across his wrist on the next sharper breath out.
Returns to kiss her throat, bared and lovely, and stays kind of close like that, the rough texture of a curling horn nudging her chin, a warm press of their bodies.
"Again," he murmurs. "Let me feel you come again."
And for him to finish too soon without that is enough encouragement to hold on longer, a familiarly pleasurable form of restraint that doesn't at all alter the things he is doing to her. The hand at her thigh moves around, palm skimming over where they're joined, where it's warm and sensitive.
"Again," comes breathlessly, midway between laughter and incredulous. "Loxley."
The rest of the sentence comes apart in her mouth, scatters into a moan. Her fingers return to his hair, grip so tightly there as she reaches down between him. Finds his wrist, the back of his hand.
"Touch me here," she whispers, guiding his fingers just so. "Here, please."
How can she do anything but give him what he's asked for?
Her incredulity gets a breath of a laugh from him, in the midst of everything—a breathless one, short, more tactile than sound, and also unapologetic. Because she moans, next, grips him like that and has him tip his chin up some, each little involuntary response felt like a small shock of heat.
His hand goes pliant as she touches it, moving where it is moved. Soft, first, and then firming up before she has to press him.
A harder push, a thrust forwards, but all committed to her, chasing that feeling of her responses, the pressure and warmth. He is less quiet, now, small sounds leaving him at the end of each breath out.
In the midst of everything, all this sensation rattling through her body, Derrica briefly observes the two of them at some slight remove. Her tenuous balance on the tips of her toes cannot even play at affecting any kind of leverage here.
What a delicate, lovely balance Loxley has orchestrated between them. Look how he has struck out a space in which she has given over to him, settled into a space where he has already wrung an orgasm from her once and then set about driving her to that same place a second time, and still manages to cede to her even in small, crucial ways the midst of it. How easy it is to instruct him in what she wants. How strange it is to want to be touched in a specific, deliberate way.
And in this moment she is aware too of how her body responds to him. All tremors and flushed skin and urgent, uncalculated movement to meet him, open-mouthed kisses to collect the sounds he's making even if it is an inexpert kiss, if she is clumsy in this, not quite full on the mouth in the application.
She comes apart easy, in spite of any intention to hold out. All these things in combination, his mouth and hands and the drive of his hips, it knocks the breath out of her. The clutch of her hands remains as she shudders and gasps through all of it, fixed in his curls and bruising around his wrist. She says his name, fractured and affectionate, against his mouth and near-incomprehensible, but surely the tone of it makes the sentiment clear.
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But it is something else too.
Derrica gives over to him. Has been, for longer than just in this moment where she parts her thighs further, uses Loxley's shoulder and the unforgiving brace of the rail to meet that first, shallow thrust of his fingers. The way he knows to touch her, how to draw out a breathless keen of a moan, how to make her body light up—
This expertise hasn't gone unnoticed. Maybe it has just been drawn into clearer focus now, with Loxley's attention so devoted to her. She doesn't say I know. It breaks instead into sound, shuddering through her as she flushes under the combination of Loxley's hands and mouth.
"That's so good," is the first thought she strings together, breathless against the corner of Loxley's mouth. Aware of how intently he is looking at her, and finding little concern rising to meet that consideration. "Your hands are so good, but I still want you."
Eventually. This too lacks urgency, even with Derrica's tone colored through with wanting him.
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"I want you," is confirmation, not demand. He did mean it, when he says he has her. There's a subtle tip of his hips, offering himself some sensation in the form of their bodies pressing together, regardless of his hand being in the way. Or being where he wants it. Stroking, pushing deeper, palm pressing to give her something to tip herself against.
A kiss finds the corner of her mouth. "I want you to come just like this," he murmurs, a curl of a smile in his tone, warm. "So beautiful like this, Derrica."
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The only difference, the only thing that has shifted between them is familiarity. Loxley knows how to touch her. It is worlds away from simply knowing what another person might like, and knowing what they do like. There is something he wants to draw out of her and in this moment, Derrica is aware of how easily he is able to simply do that. Touch her and set her skin on fire.
"Loxley," comes on a gasp, turned in against his mouth in answer. "Not yet."
This cannot last forever. Even this request is at odds with the requests catching in her mouth, wanting more and deeper as much as she wants to keep him held to close, the weight of his body bearing her back into the rail. The wind catches at his hair, stirs the folds of the shawl and the fabric of her skirts. Her nails dig into Loxley's shoulder as she kisses him, finally, properly, as if to impress her request upon him.
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Not yet, and he moves against her again, kiss breaking off in a smear of a sound, maybe her name. Eyes bright, circles of brown-gold and wide pupils.
"More?" he asks. "Less?"
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This is not a place she can stay for long, balancing on a knife's edge of sensation as Loxley moves against her and into her and kisses the moans from her mouth. It is finite and Loxley will tip her out of it in a matter of minutes. Has promised as much.
But it is a good place to be, where the entire world has contracted around them. What else is there but the two of them, locked together as the sunlight fades and night sets in overhead?
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Not for long. He nudges her back into a kiss, resuming that preferred pace and pressure as soon as their lips meet. They could make a game of that, if they wanted, but he is too much keyed into meeting her need, into giving her what she wants.
He wants her to give in, wants to hear it in her voice and feel it in the clutch of her hands, but as much, this is what makes that worth it. Feeling her shiver and twitch and flex from simply what his hand is doing, what his mouth encourages. He will do this all night, if she desired it.
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All the intensity of Loxley's focus is nearly a tangible thing. It's impossible not to respond to the intent radiating from him, winding tension tighter and tighter through her body. The collar of his tunic bunches in one hand, though Derrica can't possibly bring him any closer to her.
She does want him closer. Impossibly. It ricochets through her mind, through her body. Derrica makes a soft, pleading noise against Loxley's mouth, and comes apart. Caught between the rail and Loxley's body and the loop of his arm, it's easy to give over to him, let Loxley push her past her breaking point. Holding back never crosses her mind.
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He is still keyed in, the feeling of her leg hooked around his and the tug at his shirt, where it's loosened the hem some from his sash. Doing nothing, really, to help himself in either direction, watching her expression with hazy desire as tension unwinds, resolves.
Ducks his head to kiss the corner of her mouth, then again, more direct.
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It is good. It is worlds away from the way she'd allow the strangers she'd fallen into bed with in Kirkwall to do with her. Not that it was ever a choice. None of them could have done this to her.
The first kiss is clumsy, lacking in focus. But clarity comes to her as Loxley kisses her again. The vise of her grip at his neck and shoulders eases, even as she murmurs, "I still want you."
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Lifting his hand, licking just the edge of one knuckle, watching her. It is not quite the same look he'd worn when he'd done his little trick with the wine bottle (still securely on the railing, a foot away from them) on account of having just as much played himself. Want, and something softer. But maybe a trace of that. Pleased.
The other hand he has on her plays with a fold of fabric. "How would you want me?"
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Derrica's hands slip down to his chest. At the question, she takes hold of the fabric, gives a little tug.
"Right here," gives way to: "Now."
It is not so descriptive. Maybe not what he had been fishing after, an extension of what he already knows.
"I think you could lift me."
And the balcony would hold. But even if not, she would have him here on the stone floor. The trek back to the narrow apprentice bunks isn't worth it, though there is some undeniable appeal in the lack of space when Loxley has created an objectionable sliver of it between them.
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His expression flickers, a sharper and more serious pulse of want, as if he'd been taking some pains to cordon off his own desire in favour of—well, hers. And now there is invitation made plain, and he reaches out to reel them both back into a kiss, hungry and affirming. Yes, he thinks he could lift her too.
When he pushes a hand in between them, this time its to see to himself, the sound of buttons plucked free to open his trousers. He's not sure they've really done it like this, silly jokes about forgetting to take their boots off first and long languid appreciation over naked skin, but this only feels like a part of it all.
Certainly, no two mages got away with this either, on this balcony. Not unless the Templars here were especially permissive, or bad at seeing through their visors.
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Maybe it's more hindrance than anything else, but she keeps kissing him. Arched up onto her toes, hands winding into his hair, urging him on with her entire body. Her muscles are still loose, skin over-sensitized, that the bristle of his beard and the upward strain of her body have her shuddering into the kisses she presses to his mouth, and then to his collarbone, his neck, the hollow of his throat, undeterred by the metal of his necklace.
"Loxley," comes muffled against his mouth, as one hand leaves his hair to hike up the fabric of her skirt along one thigh. The shawl has fallen from Derrica's arm, puddled at their feet. Her fingers tighten in his hair, urging him silently in towards her.
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He hooks a hand up beneath her more revealed leg, urging her thigh up to hook against his hip. His other hand guides himself to her, against her, no little looks or pauses or any kind of tease at all when it comes to entering her just enough.
Then, lifting. A hand on her thigh, an arm braced around her waist and hand on her ass, encouraging her weight up and on where she can lean back against unyielding stone. It is a sudden intensity, to having gone from vague pressure and trapping cloth to so suddenly inside of her, and his groan out loud is only half-muffled against whatever part of her he can kiss.
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"That's so good," she tells him, breathless with the sensation of it. The immediacy of getting what she'd asked for on the heels of Loxley having already taken her apart once only moments ago is nearly overwhelming. There is nothing else to say but this one thing, as her whole body shudders while she clings tighter to him.
"You feel so good," follows after, equally breathless. Her fingers curl and uncurl into his hair, aware of his mouth hot against her jawline. If she turned her head, she could catch his mouth, but that doesn't feel so urgent. Not yet.
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Movement, then, finding a balance between shifting her those crucial fractions as well as his own, the odd constraint of this positioning more compelling than frustrating.
"Fuck," equally is only a mix of relief and pleasure. "Derrica."
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"Yes," is the sort of absent response that gears itself more towards encouragement than as a direct reaction to what he's saying. Yes, more of this. Yes, this is what she wanted.
Her fingers drag through his hair. Between them, Derrica's tenuous balance and Loxley's clutching hands, they find a way to move together. Imprecise, but maybe all the better for it.
"This," she breathes, word catching on a moan. "Just like this."
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"You feel good," and Loxley steals a kiss from her when they're next able to meet, "so lovely, Derrica. I've wanted you," and another, "I've wanted you all day."
That seems okay to say, now, brought up hot and sharp in the moment. As though perhaps he'd been counting the seconds until they could be alone. Perhaps he's always counting those seconds. It feels, here, quite true, so close to the edge himself when he's barely started.
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Derrica makes a soft sound into his mouth as those words settle. She lifts a hand from her grasping catch at his hair to set her hand to his cheek, steady them just enough to set a deep, lingering kiss to his mouth. It's a silent kind of assurance, because she cannot say the same in return. In truth, she'd been so consumed with nervousness and worry over what the day was meant to hold that it had crowded out most everything else.
When she kisses him a second time, it's for the morning. For the time he'd spent listening to her while she sorted through all the things she could say until she'd parsed what she must say. It was more than a simple kindness. She hums into that kiss, encouraging, as she digs her heel into the back of his thigh.
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And the next sound he makes is hitched, a deep pulse of pleasure at the root of him. "Derrica," murmured, voice bound tighter in his throat.
His arm shifts, holding her tighter, also doing something to protect her from the edge of the stone railing as he interposes it for the sake of that closeness, longer strokes of movement. A thigh moving, pushing her own thigh up, tilting her ever so slightly more into his mercy, which is only this.
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It hasn't stopped catching her off guard: Loxley is easy to give over to.
Derrica lets her head fall back, thumb sliding to the corner of his mouth as her opposite hand reclaims a vise grip at his shoulder. Her whole body has gone hot, warmth pooling in her belly, spilling molten through her limbs.
"Perfect," is a gasped fragment, a continuation of a thought beating in her head. She seems to realize that a moment later, as her thumb skims along Loxley's cheek. "This feels so good. You're perfect."
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Returns to kiss her throat, bared and lovely, and stays kind of close like that, the rough texture of a curling horn nudging her chin, a warm press of their bodies.
"Again," he murmurs. "Let me feel you come again."
And for him to finish too soon without that is enough encouragement to hold on longer, a familiarly pleasurable form of restraint that doesn't at all alter the things he is doing to her. The hand at her thigh moves around, palm skimming over where they're joined, where it's warm and sensitive.
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The rest of the sentence comes apart in her mouth, scatters into a moan. Her fingers return to his hair, grip so tightly there as she reaches down between him. Finds his wrist, the back of his hand.
"Touch me here," she whispers, guiding his fingers just so. "Here, please."
How can she do anything but give him what he's asked for?
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His hand goes pliant as she touches it, moving where it is moved. Soft, first, and then firming up before she has to press him.
A harder push, a thrust forwards, but all committed to her, chasing that feeling of her responses, the pressure and warmth. He is less quiet, now, small sounds leaving him at the end of each breath out.
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What a delicate, lovely balance Loxley has orchestrated between them. Look how he has struck out a space in which she has given over to him, settled into a space where he has already wrung an orgasm from her once and then set about driving her to that same place a second time, and still manages to cede to her even in small, crucial ways the midst of it. How easy it is to instruct him in what she wants. How strange it is to want to be touched in a specific, deliberate way.
And in this moment she is aware too of how her body responds to him. All tremors and flushed skin and urgent, uncalculated movement to meet him, open-mouthed kisses to collect the sounds he's making even if it is an inexpert kiss, if she is clumsy in this, not quite full on the mouth in the application.
She comes apart easy, in spite of any intention to hold out. All these things in combination, his mouth and hands and the drive of his hips, it knocks the breath out of her. The clutch of her hands remains as she shudders and gasps through all of it, fixed in his curls and bruising around his wrist. She says his name, fractured and affectionate, against his mouth and near-incomprehensible, but surely the tone of it makes the sentiment clear.
(no subject)
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bow y/n?