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.
As she comes apart, as he feels it and hears it, something in the centre of Loxley's composure likewise crumples. His arm tightens around her in those last shuddering moments, keeping her leg pressed apart from the other with the nudge of his thigh but otherwise simply holding on as his own restraint gives.
A shift in that last moment, steered away from her kiss (in spite of her hand holding his hair) to bury her name into the crook of her neck, muffling in part his own response once control finally slips. But only in sound; Derrica can feel the way it lashes tension up through Loxley's back, in the shuddered stop and start of his movements, in the intimate press against her.
The ground returns more securely beneath her heels without Loxley yet letting up. Catching his breath. Turning his head, kissing her cheek, the side of her mouth.
Foot planted on stone, Derrica could use that newly-returned leverage to extricate herself.
Instead, she remains clung tight against him. When her fingers loosen in his hair, it's only so that she might drag her nails along his scalp when she catches Loxley's mouth. The kiss itself is exceedingly languid, slow and open-mouthed and easy.
Part of her thinks, Again.
Maybe if they were somewhere else, she might say that aloud.
"We should do this after every one of my meetings," is a low murmur, breathed rather than spoken aloud.
"I can do that," Loxley agrees, and only after gives a breathless laugh. You know, anything for the cause.
Slowly easing back, after some prolonged moments keeping her just like this for as long she gives it. Carefully reaching between them to adjust himself as his arm loosens around her, giving her back her centre of balance slowly, if kept still close, still warm. He kisses her again, still kind of smiling through it. So much for not so noticeable.
But there is time. The sky is darkening, and they can drink wine, and eat some stolen food in this stolen snatch of time. "Anytime," he murmurs, a little more soberly, if not completely so.
A pleasant ache beats in her body, alongside the lingering wash of warmth smoldering through her limbs, across her skin, everywhere they have touched each other. Even with both feet return to ground, she is content to remained hemmed in against the rail for a few moments longer.
There is time. She can kiss him again, before they consider food. And returning to the interior of this palace and the tangle of conflicting objectives and agendas and opinions waiting for them. And the narrow bunks and beyond that, the morning and whatever round of arguments the new day brings.
All of it feels more manageable in this moment. Derrica knows that's Loxley's doing, and the gratitude seeps into their kiss before she says, "Show me what you have in that basket."
Not a real parting, but a different kind of closeness to carry them through the rest of the evening.
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no subject
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.
no subject
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?
no subject
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.
no subject
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
A shift in that last moment, steered away from her kiss (in spite of her hand holding his hair) to bury her name into the crook of her neck, muffling in part his own response once control finally slips. But only in sound; Derrica can feel the way it lashes tension up through Loxley's back, in the shuddered stop and start of his movements, in the intimate press against her.
The ground returns more securely beneath her heels without Loxley yet letting up. Catching his breath. Turning his head, kissing her cheek, the side of her mouth.
no subject
Instead, she remains clung tight against him. When her fingers loosen in his hair, it's only so that she might drag her nails along his scalp when she catches Loxley's mouth. The kiss itself is exceedingly languid, slow and open-mouthed and easy.
Part of her thinks, Again.
Maybe if they were somewhere else, she might say that aloud.
"We should do this after every one of my meetings," is a low murmur, breathed rather than spoken aloud.
no subject
Slowly easing back, after some prolonged moments keeping her just like this for as long she gives it. Carefully reaching between them to adjust himself as his arm loosens around her, giving her back her centre of balance slowly, if kept still close, still warm. He kisses her again, still kind of smiling through it. So much for not so noticeable.
But there is time. The sky is darkening, and they can drink wine, and eat some stolen food in this stolen snatch of time. "Anytime," he murmurs, a little more soberly, if not completely so.
bow y/n?
There is time. She can kiss him again, before they consider food. And returning to the interior of this palace and the tangle of conflicting objectives and agendas and opinions waiting for them. And the narrow bunks and beyond that, the morning and whatever round of arguments the new day brings.
All of it feels more manageable in this moment. Derrica knows that's Loxley's doing, and the gratitude seeps into their kiss before she says, "Show me what you have in that basket."
Not a real parting, but a different kind of closeness to carry them through the rest of the evening.