[ She could say something vulgar, diminishing all he promises her with flippancy. For now, she bites her tongue, indulging the fantasy of remaining curled at his side or bound up in his arms. A new variation on the only place sheβs ever been truly safe and loved: Perched atop his lap, head tilted against his own.
(And yet she forgets his promise, by the time she awakes the next morning, or maybe she just doubts it means as much to him as it does to her. Bleary-eyed and lazy with sleep, she looses a soft sound of surprise as he winds her back. For as long as they linger, she canβt stop looking at him looking at her. Kissing and touching until her vision blurs, revisiting every mark sheβs ever left on him until he presses inside her, and she can no longer focus on any time but now, any voice in her head but his own. A rumble like the dregs of a surface thunderstorm. She keeps him there when he tries to pull out, guiding his hand to cup her breast beneath his shirt. Warming his cock as she dozes again, back pressed to his chest.)
[ It's bliss. His face nuzzled against the nape of her neck, one arm cushioning her head, the other snaked under her (his) shirt. She's warm against him, around him, the part of her thighs still a little slick, small in the cradle of his frame. He can feel each breath she takes β each inhale, each exhale, every breath matched with another conscious decision to relax, himself. It's tension he's never let go of before β as permanent to his state of being, he'd thought, as the poison that runs through his veins. But she's a miracle to him, always has been.
(He asks her to hold him like this again the next week, an echo still sleep-warm and flushed with desire. I want you. I want to be inside you. In their bed. He keeps odd hours sometimes, they both do, but he doesn't bring anyone else back to their room.)
Want leads them back to wakefulness, soft, sleepy breaths giving way to sighs, stuttering moans. Not possessiveness, strangely, but a statement of fact. He's hers, as absolute a truth as her place in his heart. He helps her wash, after β brushes and braids her hair as she sits between his knees, finishing each strand with a ribbon. It doesn't matter how long it takes. Rather, the time and effort are the point. ]
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π
(And yet she forgets his promise, by the time she awakes the next morning, or maybe she just doubts it means as much to him as it does to her. Bleary-eyed and lazy with sleep, she looses a soft sound of surprise as he winds her back. For as long as they linger, she canβt stop looking at him looking at her. Kissing and touching until her vision blurs, revisiting every mark sheβs ever left on him until he presses inside her, and she can no longer focus on any time but now, any voice in her head but his own. A rumble like the dregs of a surface thunderstorm. She keeps him there when he tries to pull out, guiding his hand to cup her breast beneath his shirt. Warming his cock as she dozes again, back pressed to his chest.)
Eventually, ]
as long as u keep me busy, boss
no subject
(He asks her to hold him like this again the next week, an echo still sleep-warm and flushed with desire. I want you. I want to be inside you. In their bed. He keeps odd hours sometimes, they both do, but he doesn't bring anyone else back to their room.)
Want leads them back to wakefulness, soft, sleepy breaths giving way to sighs, stuttering moans. Not possessiveness, strangely, but a statement of fact. He's hers, as absolute a truth as her place in his heart. He helps her wash, after β brushes and braids her hair as she sits between his knees, finishing each strand with a ribbon. It doesn't matter how long it takes. Rather, the time and effort are the point. ]
Always.