03-01-2017, 12:16 PM
He laughs again and his lips are against her nose, her skin, soft and sweet and she leans into him easily. Ah Luster, he says, and she smiles as she always will at the way her name sounds on those dark, velvet lips, that might be you, not me. The smile fades a little, dimmed by her quiet uncertainty, but she manages to hide it from the hollows of her face so that he will not know her doubt. Instead, with a voice as soft and sweet as the pale lips that explore the hollows of his dark face, “Can’t we both be special?”
She won’t tell him that she knows she is not special – won’t tell him that she is certain he is.
She doesn’t think he will believe her.
The grimace darkens his face and she laughs as she kisses it, laughs again when his lips find her neck and she arches reflexively beneath them. But then those lips wander to the curve of her throat, warm and eager, and the laughter fades with the sudden thrum of her humming pulse. Mmmm, he says and she softens, her eyes wide and dark and different than they had been before, Sure.. But I don’t think they’ll enjoy it so much. They land on his face then, those luminous brown eyes, sharp and beautiful and electric beneath the weight of his gaze. Not when they see us like this.
“Stillwater?” She starts, breathless and aching, touching her mouth to his chest, his neck – teeth, against the hard curve of his cheek because she sees what these things do to him. But then she thinks better of it, flushed and uncertain, and she slips out beneath his chin. She has no right, no reason to expect these things from him. His mouth drops against her skin and she does not miss the weight of it, the ache in it. It is reflexive when she pauses so that those lips can find new hollows to explore in the curve of her back and her hips, new ridges of bone to press his teeth to. But she knows in her chest that this means something different to her than it does to him, something more and worse and fragile, and already she is breaking with it. So she abandons those lips, despite the ache in her skin and in her belly, an ache that urges her back and beneath him, and turns instead to the cool promise of his damp shore.
But it is too much to be apart from him, to be alone with her shadow, and she is relieved when he obliges her request and returns to her side. “Stillwater.” She says again, softer this time, though her eyes are still dark and rich and open windows to the ache he coaxes with clever lips from the deepest parts of her. She means to lay her cheek against his shoulder, means to find solace in the smooth and black and away from those lips designed perfectly to undo her, those lips she wants to be undone by, but his nose finds the wound on her neck and she is, at once, still. His tongue pushes against it, against scar tissue and new flesh and she isn’t prepared for the shiver of desire that thrums instant and eager along the pathways of her veins. She blinks hard and swallows the quiet whimper, half moan and half exhalation, that catches in her chest. I should have been there. He says, a whisper, and his regret is so thick she can almost taste it.
His pain dims her.
She is gentle again when her nose lifts to his face, quieted when her lips follow the ridges of bone and the weight in his brow. She leaves kisses in the hollow places, smoothing the deep lines of tension where they dug furrows along his jaw, and uses her teeth along the underside of his neck to where it curves into his throat because she has noticed how he likes this, because he is hurt and he is heavy and it feels like her fault. “I should have been here.” She says finally, when her lips still and at last she does press her cheek to his neck, to the place that feels like home even though she has no right to it. “I should have stayed.”
With you, she doesn’t add.
But then her brow furrows, deep and uncertain, and the harsh angles that carve themselves across her forehead and along her cheeks should make her darker, but they do not. “You knew.” She says, remembering how he had slung his neck across her back to find the wound half-hidden beneath soft tangles of dark mane when she first joined him. Her cheek parts from his shoulder so that she can lift her chin and watch him, so that those dark eyes can lay easy in the familiarity of his face despite the way her skin trembles with new hesitation. “It was the first thing you looked for.” It should be an accusation, or a question, but it is none of these things on her lips, and when she watches him she is quiet, distant. “But how. How could you possibly know?”
She doesn’t tell him that she meant to keep it from him, that he shouldn’t worry, shouldn’t care. She cannot say it because somewhere deep inside she is touched and pleased and warm at the implication of his concern. Instead she softens again, affected by his dark and his regret and the shadows that cling so stubbornly to his face, and reaches out to nose his shoulder with a smile that is shy and sweet and vulnerable on her lips. "Hey," she says, brushes her nose along the smooth black to hide the teasing way her eyes gleam, "if you aren't careful I might start thinking you care."
She won’t tell him that she knows she is not special – won’t tell him that she is certain he is.
She doesn’t think he will believe her.
The grimace darkens his face and she laughs as she kisses it, laughs again when his lips find her neck and she arches reflexively beneath them. But then those lips wander to the curve of her throat, warm and eager, and the laughter fades with the sudden thrum of her humming pulse. Mmmm, he says and she softens, her eyes wide and dark and different than they had been before, Sure.. But I don’t think they’ll enjoy it so much. They land on his face then, those luminous brown eyes, sharp and beautiful and electric beneath the weight of his gaze. Not when they see us like this.
“Stillwater?” She starts, breathless and aching, touching her mouth to his chest, his neck – teeth, against the hard curve of his cheek because she sees what these things do to him. But then she thinks better of it, flushed and uncertain, and she slips out beneath his chin. She has no right, no reason to expect these things from him. His mouth drops against her skin and she does not miss the weight of it, the ache in it. It is reflexive when she pauses so that those lips can find new hollows to explore in the curve of her back and her hips, new ridges of bone to press his teeth to. But she knows in her chest that this means something different to her than it does to him, something more and worse and fragile, and already she is breaking with it. So she abandons those lips, despite the ache in her skin and in her belly, an ache that urges her back and beneath him, and turns instead to the cool promise of his damp shore.
But it is too much to be apart from him, to be alone with her shadow, and she is relieved when he obliges her request and returns to her side. “Stillwater.” She says again, softer this time, though her eyes are still dark and rich and open windows to the ache he coaxes with clever lips from the deepest parts of her. She means to lay her cheek against his shoulder, means to find solace in the smooth and black and away from those lips designed perfectly to undo her, those lips she wants to be undone by, but his nose finds the wound on her neck and she is, at once, still. His tongue pushes against it, against scar tissue and new flesh and she isn’t prepared for the shiver of desire that thrums instant and eager along the pathways of her veins. She blinks hard and swallows the quiet whimper, half moan and half exhalation, that catches in her chest. I should have been there. He says, a whisper, and his regret is so thick she can almost taste it.
His pain dims her.
She is gentle again when her nose lifts to his face, quieted when her lips follow the ridges of bone and the weight in his brow. She leaves kisses in the hollow places, smoothing the deep lines of tension where they dug furrows along his jaw, and uses her teeth along the underside of his neck to where it curves into his throat because she has noticed how he likes this, because he is hurt and he is heavy and it feels like her fault. “I should have been here.” She says finally, when her lips still and at last she does press her cheek to his neck, to the place that feels like home even though she has no right to it. “I should have stayed.”
With you, she doesn’t add.
But then her brow furrows, deep and uncertain, and the harsh angles that carve themselves across her forehead and along her cheeks should make her darker, but they do not. “You knew.” She says, remembering how he had slung his neck across her back to find the wound half-hidden beneath soft tangles of dark mane when she first joined him. Her cheek parts from his shoulder so that she can lift her chin and watch him, so that those dark eyes can lay easy in the familiarity of his face despite the way her skin trembles with new hesitation. “It was the first thing you looked for.” It should be an accusation, or a question, but it is none of these things on her lips, and when she watches him she is quiet, distant. “But how. How could you possibly know?”
She doesn’t tell him that she meant to keep it from him, that he shouldn’t worry, shouldn’t care. She cannot say it because somewhere deep inside she is touched and pleased and warm at the implication of his concern. Instead she softens again, affected by his dark and his regret and the shadows that cling so stubbornly to his face, and reaches out to nose his shoulder with a smile that is shy and sweet and vulnerable on her lips. "Hey," she says, brushes her nose along the smooth black to hide the teasing way her eyes gleam, "if you aren't careful I might start thinking you care."