02-10-2019, 06:21 PM
The feeling of his hand against her waist is both comforting and thrilling. It reawakens the months before she left when they had walked this way through the marketplace every weekend. The faint rustling feeling at her hip lets Wishbone know that Ivar is appreciating the material of her romper and the beginnings of a smile nip at one corner of her mouth. She decides that he makes it too easy to fall in love with him (although these are not her exact thoughts, it’s what we all know she’s thinking deep inside) as Ivar grabs the door into the main lobby.
The smell of coffee might not distract the man at her side, but it does distract Wishbone. She’s never been the type for a cream-and-sugar beverage: her cup of joe is always black and bitter, and sometimes with a shot of something extra. The pot in the restaurant smells just the way she likes it, but Ivar’s hand wrapped around her demands that they head straight for the elevators.
By the time the doors close behind them, Wishbone’s forgotten about the coffee. He’s stepped closer to her, inspecting the lines of her face while she inspects the lines of his now that she can see him fully. “You’re observant,” she quips, but there’s a smile in her eyes that betrays the fact that she enjoys his gaze on her. “Have you been using the oil I gave you?” A slender hand reaches up to touch his chin in an action that’s unsettlingly soft. “Your beard is longer.”
Wishbone barely waits for an answer; her height means she has to push herself onto her tiptoes while she presses herself into his body. Tipping her face upward, the auburn-haired woman moves to smoothly kiss Ivar. Just before pulling away, she snags his bottom lip with her teeth, exerting just enough pressure to pinch in a way she knows he goes crazy for. Just as she’s resuming her natural height, the doors ding open and Wishbone walks out, tossing a knowing look over her shoulder. “Don’t tell me you still leave your door unlocked, ‘Var.”
@[Ivar]
The smell of coffee might not distract the man at her side, but it does distract Wishbone. She’s never been the type for a cream-and-sugar beverage: her cup of joe is always black and bitter, and sometimes with a shot of something extra. The pot in the restaurant smells just the way she likes it, but Ivar’s hand wrapped around her demands that they head straight for the elevators.
By the time the doors close behind them, Wishbone’s forgotten about the coffee. He’s stepped closer to her, inspecting the lines of her face while she inspects the lines of his now that she can see him fully. “You’re observant,” she quips, but there’s a smile in her eyes that betrays the fact that she enjoys his gaze on her. “Have you been using the oil I gave you?” A slender hand reaches up to touch his chin in an action that’s unsettlingly soft. “Your beard is longer.”
Wishbone barely waits for an answer; her height means she has to push herself onto her tiptoes while she presses herself into his body. Tipping her face upward, the auburn-haired woman moves to smoothly kiss Ivar. Just before pulling away, she snags his bottom lip with her teeth, exerting just enough pressure to pinch in a way she knows he goes crazy for. Just as she’s resuming her natural height, the doors ding open and Wishbone walks out, tossing a knowing look over her shoulder. “Don’t tell me you still leave your door unlocked, ‘Var.”
@[Ivar]