(no subject)

[workaphilic]

[It's not what he was expecting.

Which is the beauty of it, really.

He still wants his violin, has had the opening movement of a concerto seeping into the spaces of his mind all morning and needs to get it out. (Should be good, will help him think.)

But this (she) has his attention.

He stops in the doorway and stares. And stares and stares and stares.]

No time for the laundrette?

Comments

[workaphilic]

[His breath stutters against her mouth. (Can't help it. Past experience notwithstanding, it's still been a long time.) There's a moment where he tries to fight it, to split his attention; let the sensation in and hold on to his focus at the same time.

It's nearly physically painful, definitely unpleasant, and it comes out as roughness. A drag of his teeth against her lower lip, the hard press of his fingers against her thigh.

(Doesn't make sense. Used to be so easy, separating the mental from the physical. Different, different, all of this is different.)]

[chastise]

[The hand in the hair moves to soothe him immediately, fingers rubbing deep circles into the base of his head, the roughness hardly deters her from the kiss, a pleasant little gasp releasing instead.

She wouldn't have pegged him for a man to do it. Her grip on him won't ease, however, keeping the same languid pace, but varying the pressure on every stroke. She's intending to draw this out, and keep him on his toes]

[workaphilic]

[Have to employ an alternate strategy, then. Streamline. Focus on something else, focus on--

Christ.

He pulls back just enough to speak against her lips.]

You're distracting me.

[Not really a request to stop, though.]

[chastise]

[She laughs softly, again, more smug amusement in the sound than anything else. Though a slight undercurrent of affection is there as well]

You didn't expect me to make it easy on you, did you? [Excellent, because she has no intention of stopping]

[workaphilic]

Hardly.

[But don't expect him to just sit back and take it. He's nothing if not adaptable, and for all his momentary discombobulation he still knows how to reassess and reorient.

His hips press into her touch more eagerly, and he focuses his attention on the spot where her jaw meets her neck. He mouths his way down, slowly, occasionally humming into her skin when she rubs him just the right way. He's leaning over her, heavy, encouraging her to lie back, fishing to tip control back in his favor.]

[chastise]

[She was hoping for the opposite, actually. Because he'd never been the sort of man to be content to be spoon fed, and she's almost sure that if he'd adopted a demeanour like that in bed, she'd have become disinterested enough to call a halt to things.

But the last thing she is, is disinterested or disappointed. She's curious enough about what he'd do with the allusion of control he'd receive by the action, that she'll allow him to topple her back onto the bed, hands skimming the areas of skin she has available as she goes. However, now that she's had him at such a close proximity, she's loathe to let him go and reaches up to pull him down to her]

[workaphilic]

[He uses it to drag it out, surprisingly enough.

The few number of times he'd done this before had been strictly scientific -- an examination of biology and chemistry in himself and psychology in his partners. Laboratory conditions (nearly). Controlled experimentation (sort of). They'd been some of the most boring experiments he'd ever done in his life.

But this -- this isn't boring. It's anything but, and he's not eager to just stick it in and get it over with. So he goes with her easily, pressing his mouth to the pulse point in her neck and skimming his hands down lower, lower. He's rapidly losing track of what he was supposed to be paying attention to in the first place, but it's fine. She's enough of a puzzle on her own.]