This is the point. The way he comes apart, the sounds he makes, the way his hands clutch at her as the sensation rattles through his body. This is what she'd wanted. It doesn't matter whether or not she follows him over. What matters is having him, all flushed and pliant and contented.
She is still kissing him, slow and luxurious and easy, until he relaxes beneath her. And even then, it's only a matter of minor adjustments. Lifting her hips, resettling to drape comfortably across his chest. Touching just to touch him, fingers carding through his hair, slipping down to touch his cheek, trace the line of his jaw. Listen to him breathing, feel the rise and fall of his chest beneath her.
What else is there to say? All the soft, honey-soaked affections she's murmured to him, they still hang in the air. Her fingers press them gently into his skin, as she touches him, quiet as they breathe together.
There's a loosening all around, him first and then her. His arms slide around her, now, wilfully indulging in holding her smaller body to his own, the warmth radiating off of her. A shift of his spine, hips, aligning them both into a comfortable tangle.
A familiar tangle. And there's a world where Loxley woke up from months of dreaming to a colder bed, or one shared with a less empathetic presence, whether out of chance for it happening on an evening they didn't share, or even more abstractly, because it's a world where they hadn't sought each other out, and continued to.
Gratitude is a sharp and present twinge. That's what he calls it, anyway, that feeling, brow furrowing and chin lifting so he can kiss her forehead in a way he hopes conveys it.
If not the specific thing, then close enough to it that Derrica can divine the meaning behind the softness of the kiss and the expression on Loxley's face.
Her fingers are very light where they span his cheek and jaw. Derrica kisses the hollow of his throat, to stave off the urge to stretch up to catch his mouth again.
"Go back to sleep," she murmurs. "We can get up in a little while."
It's already late. A little more stolen time isn't going to make a difference now.
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She is still kissing him, slow and luxurious and easy, until he relaxes beneath her. And even then, it's only a matter of minor adjustments. Lifting her hips, resettling to drape comfortably across his chest. Touching just to touch him, fingers carding through his hair, slipping down to touch his cheek, trace the line of his jaw. Listen to him breathing, feel the rise and fall of his chest beneath her.
What else is there to say? All the soft, honey-soaked affections she's murmured to him, they still hang in the air. Her fingers press them gently into his skin, as she touches him, quiet as they breathe together.
no subject
A familiar tangle. And there's a world where Loxley woke up from months of dreaming to a colder bed, or one shared with a less empathetic presence, whether out of chance for it happening on an evening they didn't share, or even more abstractly, because it's a world where they hadn't sought each other out, and continued to.
Gratitude is a sharp and present twinge. That's what he calls it, anyway, that feeling, brow furrowing and chin lifting so he can kiss her forehead in a way he hopes conveys it.
slaps down bow
If not the specific thing, then close enough to it that Derrica can divine the meaning behind the softness of the kiss and the expression on Loxley's face.
Her fingers are very light where they span his cheek and jaw. Derrica kisses the hollow of his throat, to stave off the urge to stretch up to catch his mouth again.
"Go back to sleep," she murmurs. "We can get up in a little while."
It's already late. A little more stolen time isn't going to make a difference now.