Chapter Text
“That’s nice,” he observes, taking deep breaths to settle the jitter of nerves that makes his hands cold and his stomach somersault. “What is it?”
“Incense,” she replies unhelpfully, swinging her hips in a slow, sinuous dance around his chair. She reaches out to touch him often: massaging his scalp with gentle strokes, scratching her nails lightly on his skin to raise goosebumps, leaning to press her breasts into his shoulders, and teasing the edges of his sensitive ears with her tongue. He marvels at the difference it makes when someone else is doing the touching—unpredictable and therefore exciting.
Deliberate and measured, holding that blue-green sea glass gaze with her quicksilver eyes, she undoes the knot barely holding his short robe together and draws it open as if she’s unwrapping a much anticipated gift.
“Goodness,” she exclaims appreciatively at the sight, “I take it you’re ready then?”
He is ready and strangely at ease, unperturbed as her eyes roam his scarred, flushed skin. His lean fighter’s musculature is tense with anticipation, his cock so hard it lays on his belly, pulsing in time with the wild beating of his heart. If anything, the compliment paired with her undeniably hungry gaze engenders a feeling of pride in his appearance he’s never experienced before.
It’s hypnotizing, being the object of her raw desire. A heady drunken weight fogging his brain and sending images running through his head, scenes he didn’t believe himself capable of devising until this very moment. Most revolving around he and Opal spending the rest of their lives taking it in turns to fuck each other breathless and brainless.
Some heretofore unused or unheeded instinct guides him to take her hand and drag his lips over the back, whispering a strained, “Gods, yes,” into her skin. “Touch me more. Let me touch you.”
His reward is a soft smile and the barest hint of rising color on her cheeks, before she leans close to capture his mouth with her own.
She tastes of the white wine and smoked spices. Her fingertips trace his chest, exploring the smooth texture of his scar, teasing a peaked nipple, and lingering a long moment on the gathering of silver hairs on his lower belly, before suddenly wrapping her hand around the base of his cock and giving it a long, slow stroke.
He moans into her mouth like a wild animal, unable to do anything with his hands but find some generous curve and hold on for dear life.
When she lets go after a moment, he thinks he might cry.
“Master Cid…” she murmurs, breaking the kiss to nibble her way downward, leaving a trail of small red welts from his throat to his stomach, punctuating each mark with a few words, “So pretty… So sweet… I’m going to make you feel wonderful… Would you like that?”
‘Please, yes, for the love of all that is sacred, yes yes, please, yes’ is what he wants to reply, but he can’t seem to get his various word making parts to line up and perform. In the end his—admittedly garbled already—plea only comes out as a high pitched whine trapped somewhere in the back of his throat.
Kneeling now, she stares up at him, unfazed by his current state. Her kiss stung mouth quirks in unmistakable amusement as she traces random shapes on the sensitive skin of his inner thighs. All the while circling closer and closer, on some passes just grazing—
“Opal—“ he begs breathlessly, but her name leaves him as a muddled sigh tangled with a sharp gasp.
Finally, she leaves off her relentless teasing and lays a tiny kiss on the slickened tip, before slipping the whole of him, down to the root, in her mouth. It takes his breath away, the warmth, the wetness. She uses her hands along with her lips, his body quivering as entire groups of nerves and muscles awaken to thrill at her touch.
In the past, his scholar made up for a lack of technique with pure enthusiasm. Opal possesses both technique and enthusiasm in spades; he’s putty in her hands in mere moments, his eyes rolling back, knuckles gone white on the arms of the chair. He longs to touch her, to grab fistfuls of her shimmering hair, but he seems to have lost control of his limbs and train of thought, incapable of knowing anything but the soft suction.
A heat rises in him, layer upon layer of delicious tense pressure collecting, magnifying, and building between his legs; a tangled knot that fills him with long, liquid waves of pleasure that tighten or tug with every motion of her mouth.
All at once, it begins to loosen, slipping out of his grasp like water through a sieve, causing a sensation of wild panic that feels more like gleeful anticipation. He wants to lose control of himself like this, craves it unconditionally like men need water or air.
“That’s… Ah…” he thinks, or perhaps mumbles. He can’t be sure.
What he is sure of however, is Opal repositioning herself to cradle his length between her breasts. On the downward stroke, her tongue samples the fluid still seeping from the tip before enveloping the head in the sweet heat of her mouth. On the upward stroke his cock slides out of her lips with a lewd pop, then back into her cleavage’s soft, pillowy caress.
His brain short circuits.
He has enough wherewithal to grunt, “Op—”, but no more than that before his mouth freezes in a perfect o, eyes closing as the knot comes unraveled. The molten bliss trapped in his groin spreads throughout his entire body, pulsing outward in the same waves he felt before, though now relaxation flows from the top of his head to the very ends of his toes, rather than tension.
His eyes spring open again at a sharp snap, just as the mess vanishes from Opal’s face and chest as if it never existed.
“Sorry,” he mutters, straightening his glasses, unsure if he is more embarrassed at the fact that he failed to warn her in time or that it never occurred to him to use prestidigitation in such a manner before.
She stares at him, brow raised. “Why apologize?”
He tugs gently on her hand, hoping she will oblige him by falling into his lap. She does and as a result it takes him several seconds to focus on her question, rather than the wet heat so tantalizingly close to parts of him already greedy for more—“I was remembering all the bedsheets, handkerchiefs, washcloths, and towels I took it upon myself to clean over the years, when all this time I could have simply used prestidigitation.”
The throaty laugh she gives is genuine, her head thrown back and her whole body wriggling on his lap in mirth. Cid is used to being laughed at, but this is very different.
A strange sort of pride blooms in his breast at knowing he can make her laugh like that, followed shortly by a feverish curiosity to discover what other, more obscene, reactions he might coax from her and through which mutually enjoyable means. His mind whirls with newfound outlets for his inquiring mind, all of them improper in the extreme.
“May I?” he asks, sliding fingers downward, along the ladder of her ribs, tracing the generous swell of her hip, and—after her nod of assent—probing gently, reverently, at the nest of dark curls over her core.
His fingers see what he cannot: soft, wet folds surrounding her sacred warmth, dripping wet and so sensitive that she sighs his name like a prayer, seeking his lips for hungry, breathless kisses after every gentle caress.
But oh, how we wants to see.
On a whim he easily lifts and deposits her on the gargantuan bed. Grinning at her squawk of protest, he bids the mage hand to appear and fetch him the Gnomish Kama Sutra. He lays on his stomach at her feet, before wrapping his hands around her waist and dragging her downward, toward his face.
“Master Cid?” She eyes him with equal parts open suspicion and naked interest, a deep blush spreading across her breasts and climbing up her elegant throat before staining her cheeks a fetching rose. “What are you doing?”
The mage hand floats nearby, idly flipping pages in the book. “A little experiment. I have a theory…” he trails off to drag his mouth across the creamy skin of her thighs, littering the perfect canvas with bites and kisses. His eyes glitter in excitement at the thought of gaining new knowledge. “I’d like to test it, if I have your permission?”
By way of answer, she settles back onto the bed, opening her legs wide and twining her fingers in his silver hair.