The little chuckle she gives as Maxly circles her should say enough on how she feels about being haunted later. He's a cute one, in her opinion. But on the other end of things...
"Well, now that I've been invited."
She strides into the room as if it was her own, drawing near to the cross to examine it, fingers touching the straps. Solid workmanship. Made for someone with specific preferences. She's got no doubt the equivalent exists in Faerun.
He follows close behind her, enjoying the view from that angle unabashedly.
"It's been met with curiosity. I've had several try it once and decide it wasn't for them while others have become quite enamored with it. I'll never name names, of course, but I've seen a lovely array of tastes in my clients. If you would like to satisfy your own curiosity, I'm more than willing to show you what I can do with it."
"Believe me when I say I'm curious about almost anything. But, Lord Osborne, that includes something particular."
Her eyes are full of interest, when she turns to look at him again, the circlet on her brow catching a bit of the light. One of her hands absently toys with one of the leather straps for the texture, nothing more.
"I'm the most curious about what you want. Your work's about satisfying others, listening to what they'd ask of you, fulfilling those wishes. So, since this isn't work and entirely about our own pleasure...what haven't you gotten to have for yourself?"
Herself, she knows, she could go with anything. Willing and amiable to try different things, discover how she felt about them. But him? What does he want, if he's allowed to choose for himself outside of the framework of getting paid, if it's just for his own desires? That holds her attention far more than any particular set of bonds.
"Hm?" He lifts a brow as she mentions she's curious about something in particular. Fool that he is, he doesn't see the most obvious of questions coming.
What he wants? It's as if he's been switched off suddenly--no simulations of breathing or blinking, just shocked stillness. What does he want? He can tell she's asking in earnest so why does it sound like a trick question?
How many seconds have gone by now? He has to answer with something. He can't tell her the truth? What will she think of a whore getting sentimental about sex? He can't come out and say that what he's desired most is for deeper connections, for it to mean something. No. That stays good and buried.
"I... hadn't give it much though," he lies. "I'm not choosey, so long as we both have a nice time."
Hm. With how it catches him like that, she's almost willing to believe him. And yet, there's something familiar in the shape of his words, something she can dig out and recognize. Something she knows intimately, enough to step closer, search his eyes for the cracks in his facade.
"How sweet. But I don't believe you."
Her words are softly spoken, though there's a hint of steel behind. He isn't allowed to run away. They're very close now, close enough that she'll see every twitch.
"Tell me the truth, Erik."
What does he want for himself? If he persists in lying, she'll turn around and leave.
It's not often someone calls his bluff this directly. Well. All right. It didn't used to be often. It's happening more and more these days. He might be losing his edge.
"It's half of the truth," he hedges, meeting her eyes and then wishing he hadn't when he sees the steel behind them.
"I'm terrified you'll laugh. For someone like me, my wish is...embarrassingly mundane." He hasn't said what it is yet, but he also hasn't lied.
"All right..." Dammit, he can't refuse when she looks at him that way. He never could resist soft eyes.
"Tenderness. That is what I desire."
He opens his mouth to keep going and stalls out as a lump rises in his throat. He swallows hard and forces another breath into his lungs. He has to finish this confession. That is what it feels like.
As promised, she doesn't laugh. She does smile, but it's not a harsh thing. It's contentment with being told the truth, before she nods. Understood.
Tenderness. This she can do, this she can give. Something gentler than her usual approach, if he wants to be vulnerable about it. This she can demonstrate, stepping close enough that they brush against each other. Laying her hand on his cheek, thumb stroking his cheekbone she leans in to kiss him. Not pushing, not asking. Something given out, instead. What's mundane about that?
If he needed to breathe he would have been holding his breath waiting for at least a snicker, possibly covered by a cough. Instead she... takes him utterly seriously. Tension he hadn't been aware of loosens between his shoulder blades.
His eyes stay fixed on her, wary and yet hungry for the way she moves, slow and gentle. He leans lightly into her hand on his face and accepts her kiss with softly parted lips. Usually, he would be quick to deepen it, make it fiery and passionate the way most people crave when they come to him to have their fantasies fulfilled. Today, it's his turn. He chooses to probe her lips slowly with his tongue, to savor the heat in her breath against his cold skin.
"I'd like that."
His hands wind up her back, lingering over every ripple of muscle he can feel beneath her clothes, and then, when he reaches her hair, his fingers twine into her curls, tracing the hard line of her skull beneath as if he means to memorize the curve and shape of it. He brushes against her tiara with a curious look in his eyes. "Does this signify anything in particular?"
Erik doesn't know how lucky he is, that she lacks the wit currently to make any jokes about warming him up. Still, his temperature is no barrier to her - she'll bestow heat freely, free arm snaking around his waist. He's not trapped, but held.
Beneath his fingers, at one point, there's a scar hidden under her hair. A neat, small line almost an inch long on the back of her skull.
When he asks about the headband, Fever blinks a little, and then smiles again.
"It makes things easier. Long story short, a while back in my life, I lost a fight I wasn't expecting to get into. It left some things broken in my head." Even though it's not really a story to set the mood. "This, and the one I had before I arrived here, helps me against the aftermath. With it, I can keep my focus, be less confused - it helps clear things up when I need to actually think. Just sort of...smooths over the rough edges."
Jokes like that lead him to getting his teeth involved. Which isn't very vulnerable for him, so best let that rest for now.
It's a strange thing, to let himself be held. Let really is the right way to put it, as he fights the habit to assert himself. He wants this, truly, but there's fear in getting what he wants. What if it isn't what he hopes? What if it is?
He tries to put those worries from his mind by tracing the scar beneath her hair, wondering if this came from that fight she's speaking of. Blunt force could cause many long-term issues. A shame he likely can't so anything for it.
"I'm sorry you must live with such an ailment, but you seem to have it well in-hand. You don't strike me as one who enjoys being pitied." He could be wrong. He trusts she'll tell him if he is.
"I took it for an heirloom, perhaps. Or a trophy of some kind. Forgive me, but I did not judge you to be royalty."
She laughs, bright and easy, far from being offended.
"Not in the slightest. I'd make an absolutely terrible royal. Or noble, for that matter. I'd make some grievous social error and then wind up fighting whoever tried to take me to task for it."
There's an ease in her, nothing hasty. He's handsome, but she's decent at being patient when the time calls for it. For now, she'll just keep her arms around Erik, close but without pressure. Give him time to breathe, to be himself. It's hard to fuck up something like this, when it's for one's own pleasure and it's understood.
Strange, she'll ponder later, that of all the people to confess a wish for vulnerability to, it's to the woman who may as well leave bloody marks on everything she touches. Someone smarter than her could make meaning from it.
"...There are other scars on me, from different sources. Nothing hurts, and nothing is off limits to be touched. Figure I should give warning - it's raised some eyebrows in the past when I haven't."
Live with them long enough, you forget they're novel to other eyes.
"Yes," he laughs along with her. "I could easily see that becoming a problem. But you would make an excellent guard. I spent most of my years sharpening my tongue rather than my sword. I relied heavily on my right hand, Josiah, to keep his weapons at the ready when words failed. Thankfully, that was not often." If one thing can be said for older vampires, it's that they are usually too risk averse to go to blows over anything trivial. That's how they've managed to live so long in the first place.
She may notice that the talking helps relax him into her embrace. It's as much defense as offense, even if he'll never admit to that aloud.
"Thank you for telling me. They won't shock me, I assure you, but I do always try to approach touching such marks with caution until otherwise told." Since he has aversion so his own being seen or touched too directly. "Scars are... a delicate topic for vampires. We usually do not have any--cannot have any." Yet, he does.
She thinks of Astarion's scars, and says nothing. That's his secret to dispense as he would if he ever sets foot here, not hers. Instead, she focuses on the man in front of her, notes how the talking seems to set him at ease. Good. The more he relaxes, the less he'll feel afraid, the more he'll understand he never had anything to fear when it comes to voicing his desires.
"No need for delicacy with these ones. I've been reckless and I've survived in turn."
Even the one that had made Hawkeye look askance, the one that tended to draw the most worried gaze, it's long healed. Fever never won't have that mark upon her, proof of what she went through, something that at times she feels was wholeheartedly earned.
"Is there anywhere you need me to avoid? Where I shouldn't be touching?"
The way he said that, he's all but confessing, so all she's doing is teasing it into the light by asking after it directly. She can't read his mind, and the last thing she wants is to kill the mood because she did something wrong.
A flicker of tension pulls his chest tight like a spasm, but it passes so quickly it could almost go undetected. Almost.
She's asking out of concern, he reminds himself. It isn't as if he hasn't told plenty of people about this boundary. So, why does it feel somehow more intimate this time?
"My upper back and shoulders are a sensitive area. I have old marks there that I don't like others to see. Touching through fabric is tolerable but I'd prefer they be avoided."
She drops a kiss on his lips, light, and then up on his cheekbone trying to soothe it away. At the pace they're going, it'll be easy to remember, to redirect herself even when caught up. Just be careful, and it'll be fine.
"I won't touch. I won't look. You won't have to think about them."
He'll only have to think about enjoying himself. Plenty of other places for her to treat well.
The final knot of worry in his chest loosens as she promises to avoid his tender back. He's trained himself, by now, not to openly react if anyone does approach that area but there is a real sense of relief to know he won't have to keep up that facade. He really can just... relax.
"You are more than enough to make me forget them," he answers in what should be a sultry low flirt but it comes out far more sincere. He can almost picture himself blushing beneath those kisses she feathers over his cheekbones.
Now, though, he's gaining the confidence to give back a little too. "Strip for me, Fever? Let me admire you and your storied battle scars. I have hungered to see you bare since I met you."
The smile on her lips has an edge of honesty that was absent earlier as she pulls away, reluctant to leave his proximity but knowing she's not going far.
"As you desire, my lord." The title is said with enough flippancy that he'll know there's no deference implied, only playful banter.
She strips leisurely, as she might have at home - not so much so that it becomes a tease, but comfortable in letting him see. The unveiling of how her freckles really do go everywhere, the exposure of her skin, her form, what a life lived by fighting does. The scars that are healing, that will fade when battle is no longer such an overbearing force in her life. Older and newer. And the mark left by the vivisection, uneven and arresting across her abdomen - hastily and sloppily stitched in anticipation of undoing it all the next day - but something that doesn't hurt. Just a foggy, distant image.
Fever casts her clothes to the side, knowing she can always get them later. Finally, she's bare before him save for the circlet, which she reaches up to remove infinitely slowly. This much, she'll tease with.
He never tires of people calling him that in such pleasant teasing tones--not above having his ego stroked and he won't even pretend to be.
As she undresses, his unblinking gaze never wavers away. This is far better than any strip tease because it's real. It's her allowing him to see behind the curtain. What a pleasant discovery to find that she is speckled from head to toe in those fetching freckles. Those are more interesting to him than the scars are. Scars he's seen plenty of.
"You don't have to remove that if you don't wish to," he tells her as he steps closer, reaching with his delicate fingers out to trace the constellation of spots across her shoulder. He keeps tracing them down until he comes to that vivisection scar. He traces that now, too, with the same gentle attention.
His touch is gentle, and there's the slightest tremble in her nerves of anticipation, a soft little inhale of breath. His touch on the scar is sensitive in a different way, one that's both there and not there at all. Never ceases to be interesting, that detail about herself, but she's glad he's not being overly cautious about it. There's a spark in her gaze at the title, he gives her - something about it is charming, even with her declaration that she'd make a shoddy noble. Or maybe it's just the way he says it.
"I can be queen just as well without a crown."
Taking the circlet off, she gently tosses it aside, moving in to press herself close and kiss him again. More's in it than earlier, but still restrained, pulling herself to heel even with her hands on his waist, moving to run up his front. Slow, luxurious. They have all this time, and she wants to use it well, to find what places respond well to a touch, a kiss. Perfect for Fever to turn her head and murmur her request in his ear.
"Will you let me see you in return? I'll even say please."
She could do it for him, she knows. Might have tried, in another situation, but she's keeping Erik's words about his back in mind. Better to ask than risk killing the mood. Let him keep the pace that they've set, intimate and close.
"Spoken like a true queen," he purrs. A satisfied smirk lights up his eyes as he drinks in her reactions. He shall have to think of a dozen more pet names to call her if she's going to look like that every time.
As she kisses him, he can't help but give in to the urge to tease her restraint. His fangs graze her bottom lip, not enough to break skin but the promise is there. At the same time, her fingers running across his pecks draw a deep and honest shiver out of him. He's noticeably leaning into her grip on his hips.
"Yes, My Lady."
He steps back from her grasp so she can have a better view as he pops open the buttons of his shirt, one by one, with practiced grace. Each move he makes, from the way he jerks his tie away, to the snap of his belt coming out of the loops has a sense of precise theatricality--like a stage magician redirecting his audiences' attention to exactly where he wants it. But there's nothing cynical about the performance. By the time he's stepping out of his trousers, there's a triumphant glint in his eyes.
He's down to just his undershorts and undershirt. The former are stripped down first. His manhood might not be the impressive girth of Max's, but Erik is a respectable average with the foreskin intact. He's also very nicely trimmed and groomed, as one might expect when that's part of his profession. The real show, however, is in the fact that, after a brief moment of hesitation, he reaches to draw his undershirt up and all the way over his head. Few get that privilege, but after the understanding she's shown, she's worthy of it.
After the shirt comes off, his eyes raise to meet hers, and in them is a look more vulnerable than any he's shown her yet. She's laid him bare in more ways than one, to his own surprise.
It all has its desired effect - her eyes watch him, intent and focused, viewing the show with all the appreciation and hunger one could desire from an audience. There are several comments she could make, but the words hardly matter when instead she's feeling her own resistance ebb. Gods, but it's hard to be slow when she wants to pounce on him instead, but she did promise. Still keeping herself in check, while a dozen filthy imaginings flit through her head, the trail of her eyes making absolutely no secret of it.
But when she steps close again, none of them gain a voice. Instead, she fits her hand to his cheek and exhales slow. As good at reading people as he is, he'll know the coiling tension in her, how she's keeping it in check. Steady, steady. No need to rush with this. It's exceptionally difficult. It's maddening. It's a fun challenge.
"...You're beautiful, Erik."
For all that she is, when she voices words like that, she means them. Not a trace of deceit or hesitation, only appreciation. There is no comparison to her other partners - why should there be? Every person is different, with different qualities. And right now, her thoughts are focused on him, on giving him the experience he's asked for. Even if she's only keeping her mouth close enough to tease, her entire self just away enough to not touch, save for her hand.
His breath catches in a very human way when she calls him beautiful. The way she says it, when she's looking at him like that, he can tell she means it more than skin deep. He expects himself to balk at it but... no. This time he can let himself get lost in the intensity of her gaze, the warmth of her hand on his face, and let himself believe it's true.
For once, he can't think of anything to say. He doesn't have the words to describe how deeply she's touched him. But, he can see how she strains at holding back. For him. Now it's he who cannot hold back. He drives his lips into hers, hungry for more of her heat. It's not enough, so he presses his naked body against her as if he's trying to become one with her and not even in the sexy way.
Warmth radiates from her, everywhere they touch, pouring into him. She kisses him back, clasping him close. Her touch runs down his arms, his sides, his hips - and yet, for all the desire that's so easy to read, it never once strays towards his back. Fever promised, after all, and if she thought she couldn't keep the promise, she would ask him to bind her hands so she could keep it.
Somehow, her hands wind up in his hair, running through it and using the leverage to gently coax his head back. All the easier then to kiss down his jaw, his neck. Where a pulse would beat if he had one, where she might be otherwise tempted to leave marks.
"All this time before us," she murmurs into the hollow of his throat. "I'll make good use of it." Until he can't doubt that he's being handled with affection. A different day, she might have sunk her teeth into him - but restraint. Something kinder than that.
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lordoftheozarks) wrote2023-06-13 08:20 pm
no subject
"Well, now that I've been invited."
She strides into the room as if it was her own, drawing near to the cross to examine it, fingers touching the straps. Solid workmanship. Made for someone with specific preferences. She's got no doubt the equivalent exists in Faerun.
"Does it get a lot of use?"
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"It's been met with curiosity. I've had several try it once and decide it wasn't for them while others have become quite enamored with it. I'll never name names, of course, but I've seen a lovely array of tastes in my clients. If you would like to satisfy your own curiosity, I'm more than willing to show you what I can do with it."
no subject
Her eyes are full of interest, when she turns to look at him again, the circlet on her brow catching a bit of the light. One of her hands absently toys with one of the leather straps for the texture, nothing more.
"I'm the most curious about what you want. Your work's about satisfying others, listening to what they'd ask of you, fulfilling those wishes. So, since this isn't work and entirely about our own pleasure...what haven't you gotten to have for yourself?"
Herself, she knows, she could go with anything. Willing and amiable to try different things, discover how she felt about them. But him? What does he want, if he's allowed to choose for himself outside of the framework of getting paid, if it's just for his own desires? That holds her attention far more than any particular set of bonds.
no subject
What he wants? It's as if he's been switched off suddenly--no simulations of breathing or blinking, just shocked stillness. What does he want? He can tell she's asking in earnest so why does it sound like a trick question?
How many seconds have gone by now? He has to answer with something. He can't tell her the truth? What will she think of a whore getting sentimental about sex? He can't come out and say that what he's desired most is for deeper connections, for it to mean something. No. That stays good and buried.
"I... hadn't give it much though," he lies. "I'm not choosey, so long as we both have a nice time."
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"How sweet. But I don't believe you."
Her words are softly spoken, though there's a hint of steel behind. He isn't allowed to run away. They're very close now, close enough that she'll see every twitch.
"Tell me the truth, Erik."
What does he want for himself? If he persists in lying, she'll turn around and leave.
no subject
"It's half of the truth," he hedges, meeting her eyes and then wishing he hadn't when he sees the steel behind them.
"I'm terrified you'll laugh. For someone like me, my wish is...embarrassingly mundane." He hasn't said what it is yet, but he also hasn't lied.
no subject
Her look softens by a degree, but it still asks for him to reply.
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"Tenderness. That is what I desire."
He opens his mouth to keep going and stalls out as a lump rises in his throat. He swallows hard and forces another breath into his lungs. He has to finish this confession. That is what it feels like.
"I want to let myself be vulnerable."
no subject
Tenderness. This she can do, this she can give. Something gentler than her usual approach, if he wants to be vulnerable about it. This she can demonstrate, stepping close enough that they brush against each other. Laying her hand on his cheek, thumb stroking his cheekbone she leans in to kiss him. Not pushing, not asking. Something given out, instead. What's mundane about that?
"We'll take it slow."
no subject
His eyes stay fixed on her, wary and yet hungry for the way she moves, slow and gentle. He leans lightly into her hand on his face and accepts her kiss with softly parted lips. Usually, he would be quick to deepen it, make it fiery and passionate the way most people crave when they come to him to have their fantasies fulfilled. Today, it's his turn. He chooses to probe her lips slowly with his tongue, to savor the heat in her breath against his cold skin.
"I'd like that."
His hands wind up her back, lingering over every ripple of muscle he can feel beneath her clothes, and then, when he reaches her hair, his fingers twine into her curls, tracing the hard line of her skull beneath as if he means to memorize the curve and shape of it. He brushes against her tiara with a curious look in his eyes. "Does this signify anything in particular?"
no subject
Beneath his fingers, at one point, there's a scar hidden under her hair. A neat, small line almost an inch long on the back of her skull.
When he asks about the headband, Fever blinks a little, and then smiles again.
"It makes things easier. Long story short, a while back in my life, I lost a fight I wasn't expecting to get into. It left some things broken in my head." Even though it's not really a story to set the mood. "This, and the one I had before I arrived here, helps me against the aftermath. With it, I can keep my focus, be less confused - it helps clear things up when I need to actually think. Just sort of...smooths over the rough edges."
A pause, then.
"What did you think it signified?"
no subject
It's a strange thing, to let himself be held. Let really is the right way to put it, as he fights the habit to assert himself. He wants this, truly, but there's fear in getting what he wants. What if it isn't what he hopes? What if it is?
He tries to put those worries from his mind by tracing the scar beneath her hair, wondering if this came from that fight she's speaking of. Blunt force could cause many long-term issues. A shame he likely can't so anything for it.
"I'm sorry you must live with such an ailment, but you seem to have it well in-hand. You don't strike me as one who enjoys being pitied." He could be wrong. He trusts she'll tell him if he is.
"I took it for an heirloom, perhaps. Or a trophy of some kind. Forgive me, but I did not judge you to be royalty."
no subject
"Not in the slightest. I'd make an absolutely terrible royal. Or noble, for that matter. I'd make some grievous social error and then wind up fighting whoever tried to take me to task for it."
There's an ease in her, nothing hasty. He's handsome, but she's decent at being patient when the time calls for it. For now, she'll just keep her arms around Erik, close but without pressure. Give him time to breathe, to be himself. It's hard to fuck up something like this, when it's for one's own pleasure and it's understood.
Strange, she'll ponder later, that of all the people to confess a wish for vulnerability to, it's to the woman who may as well leave bloody marks on everything she touches. Someone smarter than her could make meaning from it.
"...There are other scars on me, from different sources. Nothing hurts, and nothing is off limits to be touched. Figure I should give warning - it's raised some eyebrows in the past when I haven't."
Live with them long enough, you forget they're novel to other eyes.
no subject
She may notice that the talking helps relax him into her embrace. It's as much defense as offense, even if he'll never admit to that aloud.
"Thank you for telling me. They won't shock me, I assure you, but I do always try to approach touching such marks with caution until otherwise told." Since he has aversion so his own being seen or touched too directly. "Scars are... a delicate topic for vampires. We usually do not have any--cannot have any." Yet, he does.
no subject
"No need for delicacy with these ones. I've been reckless and I've survived in turn."
Even the one that had made Hawkeye look askance, the one that tended to draw the most worried gaze, it's long healed. Fever never won't have that mark upon her, proof of what she went through, something that at times she feels was wholeheartedly earned.
"Is there anywhere you need me to avoid? Where I shouldn't be touching?"
The way he said that, he's all but confessing, so all she's doing is teasing it into the light by asking after it directly. She can't read his mind, and the last thing she wants is to kill the mood because she did something wrong.
no subject
She's asking out of concern, he reminds himself. It isn't as if he hasn't told plenty of people about this boundary. So, why does it feel somehow more intimate this time?
"My upper back and shoulders are a sensitive area. I have old marks there that I don't like others to see. Touching through fabric is tolerable but I'd prefer they be avoided."
no subject
She drops a kiss on his lips, light, and then up on his cheekbone trying to soothe it away. At the pace they're going, it'll be easy to remember, to redirect herself even when caught up. Just be careful, and it'll be fine.
"I won't touch. I won't look. You won't have to think about them."
He'll only have to think about enjoying himself. Plenty of other places for her to treat well.
no subject
"You are more than enough to make me forget them," he answers in what should be a sultry low flirt but it comes out far more sincere. He can almost picture himself blushing beneath those kisses she feathers over his cheekbones.
Now, though, he's gaining the confidence to give back a little too. "Strip for me, Fever? Let me admire you and your storied battle scars. I have hungered to see you bare since I met you."
no subject
"As you desire, my lord." The title is said with enough flippancy that he'll know there's no deference implied, only playful banter.
She strips leisurely, as she might have at home - not so much so that it becomes a tease, but comfortable in letting him see. The unveiling of how her freckles really do go everywhere, the exposure of her skin, her form, what a life lived by fighting does. The scars that are healing, that will fade when battle is no longer such an overbearing force in her life. Older and newer. And the mark left by the vivisection, uneven and arresting across her abdomen - hastily and sloppily stitched in anticipation of undoing it all the next day - but something that doesn't hurt. Just a foggy, distant image.
Fever casts her clothes to the side, knowing she can always get them later. Finally, she's bare before him save for the circlet, which she reaches up to remove infinitely slowly. This much, she'll tease with.
no subject
As she undresses, his unblinking gaze never wavers away. This is far better than any strip tease because it's real. It's her allowing him to see behind the curtain. What a pleasant discovery to find that she is speckled from head to toe in those fetching freckles. Those are more interesting to him than the scars are. Scars he's seen plenty of.
"You don't have to remove that if you don't wish to," he tells her as he steps closer, reaching with his delicate fingers out to trace the constellation of spots across her shoulder. He keeps tracing them down until he comes to that vivisection scar. He traces that now, too, with the same gentle attention.
"You look queenly just like this, My Lady."
no subject
"I can be queen just as well without a crown."
Taking the circlet off, she gently tosses it aside, moving in to press herself close and kiss him again. More's in it than earlier, but still restrained, pulling herself to heel even with her hands on his waist, moving to run up his front. Slow, luxurious. They have all this time, and she wants to use it well, to find what places respond well to a touch, a kiss. Perfect for Fever to turn her head and murmur her request in his ear.
"Will you let me see you in return? I'll even say please."
She could do it for him, she knows. Might have tried, in another situation, but she's keeping Erik's words about his back in mind. Better to ask than risk killing the mood. Let him keep the pace that they've set, intimate and close.
no subject
As she kisses him, he can't help but give in to the urge to tease her restraint. His fangs graze her bottom lip, not enough to break skin but the promise is there. At the same time, her fingers running across his pecks draw a deep and honest shiver out of him. He's noticeably leaning into her grip on his hips.
"Yes, My Lady."
He steps back from her grasp so she can have a better view as he pops open the buttons of his shirt, one by one, with practiced grace. Each move he makes, from the way he jerks his tie away, to the snap of his belt coming out of the loops has a sense of precise theatricality--like a stage magician redirecting his audiences' attention to exactly where he wants it. But there's nothing cynical about the performance. By the time he's stepping out of his trousers, there's a triumphant glint in his eyes.
He's down to just his undershorts and undershirt. The former are stripped down first. His manhood might not be the impressive girth of Max's, but Erik is a respectable average with the foreskin intact. He's also very nicely trimmed and groomed, as one might expect when that's part of his profession. The real show, however, is in the fact that, after a brief moment of hesitation, he reaches to draw his undershirt up and all the way over his head. Few get that privilege, but after the understanding she's shown, she's worthy of it.
After the shirt comes off, his eyes raise to meet hers, and in them is a look more vulnerable than any he's shown her yet. She's laid him bare in more ways than one, to his own surprise.
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But when she steps close again, none of them gain a voice. Instead, she fits her hand to his cheek and exhales slow. As good at reading people as he is, he'll know the coiling tension in her, how she's keeping it in check. Steady, steady. No need to rush with this. It's exceptionally difficult. It's maddening. It's a fun challenge.
"...You're beautiful, Erik."
For all that she is, when she voices words like that, she means them. Not a trace of deceit or hesitation, only appreciation. There is no comparison to her other partners - why should there be? Every person is different, with different qualities. And right now, her thoughts are focused on him, on giving him the experience he's asked for. Even if she's only keeping her mouth close enough to tease, her entire self just away enough to not touch, save for her hand.
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For once, he can't think of anything to say. He doesn't have the words to describe how deeply she's touched him. But, he can see how she strains at holding back. For him. Now it's he who cannot hold back. He drives his lips into hers, hungry for more of her heat. It's not enough, so he presses his naked body against her as if he's trying to become one with her and not even in the sexy way.
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Somehow, her hands wind up in his hair, running through it and using the leverage to gently coax his head back. All the easier then to kiss down his jaw, his neck. Where a pulse would beat if he had one, where she might be otherwise tempted to leave marks.
"All this time before us," she murmurs into the hollow of his throat. "I'll make good use of it." Until he can't doubt that he's being handled with affection. A different day, she might have sunk her teeth into him - but restraint. Something kinder than that.
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