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It’s the fucking glasses, he realizes.
He’s in the kitchen palming himself through his pants, metal hand almost crunching the countertop into dust. He’s curled over on himself, eyes scrunched closed, the back of his eyelids providing no escape from the picture that’s had him hornier than a high schooler for the last two weeks.
Two fucking weeks since his roommate bought those damn glasses.
They’re pink, they’re not even prescription, which shouldn’t matter but makes his lust feel stupidly more shameful – he’s horny about blue-light glasses, for fucks sake. But they do something to him, when she’s peering up at him through her lashes and those lenses, when she’s chewing on a thumbnail, thoughtful, trying to finish whatever she’s writing. He feels like a fucking creep. She’s twenty-three.
And she’s always in the living room when she works, or writes, or basically exists. They have an office – an “office,” neither of them uses it, but there’s a desk in there, and now he’s thinking about the desk and the glasses and the pajama shorts she’s always wearing because “they can’t see my legs anyway!” but he can. Legs that keep fucking going…
“Hey, Buck,” Shit, shit, he unlatches his metal fingers with some effort, straightens up and opens the drawer in front of him. She opens the fridge door, says, “I’d kill a guy for takeout tonight, you mind making a run?”
“Sure,” Goddamnit, she’ll notice the gravel in his voice. He clears his throat, shuts the drawer.
“Swe-et,” she singsongs, grabs something from the fridge with a loud clack, “You’re the best, cash is in my wallet!”
When she passes, she does what she always does, and his body has reacted to it before it even happens. A small arm wraps around his waist, and she presses her cheek to his bicep, looks up at him through those glasses, green eyes so sweet and bright, offers him a smile he likes to think of as just for him. Every time, the space between them feels far too close and not close enough.
“Scram, squirt,” he says, like always, and she giggles and then she’s gone, those goddamn glasses and legs with her.
He practically deflates against the counter.
~
He manages one more week. He’d like to think that’s an accomplishment. And besides, the day he crumbles would make stronger super soldiers turn to dust.
“Hey Buck?”
He’s in the office, which is a mess. He’s been cleaning it in the hopes that if it’s organized, she’ll work in there and stop torturing him with those glasses. One day he’ll kill Steve for encouraging him to live with a roommate. Antisocial, my ass, he thinks.
“Bucky?” She peers at him through the crack in the door. Thank god, for once she’s not wearing the glasses – not that it helps anymore. Their daily eye contact has him rutting into his hand every night anyway.
“What do ya need, squirt,” He’s moving the bookshelves around, books included, but he pauses to quirk an eyebrow at her.
“Uh,” Her eyes track the shelf, his grip on it, the rearranging of the office. “Nesting much?”
“Forgive me for altering the feng shui a little.”
“No, no, it’s fine,” her eyes linger on the shelf again, his hold.
“I won’t ruin your books, squirt,” He says, and is that- is she- blushing? He sets the shelf down. “You alright?”
She nods, “Yeah, I’m good, I just need some help with something. It’s…” Her fingers twist together in front of her, she drops her gaze, and Bucky feels inexplicably like something is going to happen. He has no fucking idea what.
“Well, out with it,” He says, lifts the shelf back up and puts it where he originally intended. Her gaze is like a brand on his back. “What’s up, I can help.”
“Don’t promise that just yet,” She says, and – that’s definitely blush. She’s blushing. Bucky is four feet from ruining his whole life, imagining bending her over the desk and making her flush all over like that. His cock twitches. He’s losing his fucking mind.
He thought he was losing his mind.
This is infinitely worse.
She’s got her eyes covered like a kid at a scary movie, peering through her fingers at him. “I know it sounds so creepy, I’m sorry, and you totally don’t have to do it if you don’t want to, it’s just – you live here, you’re accessible, it’ll be way less awkward with you than with anyone else- “
He holds up a hand, which stops her in her tracks. He almost wants to laugh at the creepy part, like he hasn’t been jerking it to the thought of his baby-faced roommate for weeks now.
“Sure, squirt,” he says, like it’s the easiest thing in the world, like it’s nothing. “How do you want me?”
He regrets the words the second he says them. She blanches, then starts giggling, still red in the face. “God. This is going to be so weird.”
And if he’s going to dive into his anyway, and likely make a fool of himself in the process, he might as well get something out of it, yeah? When she kicks him out for being a creep, and he ends up on Steve’s couch again, at least he’ll have the memory of this. Of whatever the hell is going to happen – he knows now that something will.
“S’wrong,” he lets his voice drop, the way he knows people gag for. The corner of his mouth pulls up, and her eyes track the movement. “Gettin’ cold feet already?” He watches her throat bob, thinks about mottling it with marks, thinks about finding her pulse point with his tongue, about letting his hand drift and settle and, maybe, press.
“I’m a straight A student,” She replies, her chin tilting upward – there she is, the minx that argues with him about what’s compostable and what’s not, who says fuck in front of Steve and isn’t bothered by his dad-glare, who doesn’t take Bucky’s bullshit. “I don’t back down from a challenge.”
God, he sure hopes not.
“Go ahead,” She says, and he can hear the hesitation under her bravado. This is a strange line for roommates to cross, but there is an end result that doesn’t ruin everything, a road that leads to Bucky panting in the inky midnight of his room and grousing at her about the crumbs on the counter the next morning, nothing changed between them.
Bucky’s fairly certain he won’t be taking that road.
“Enjoy the show,” He says, and then he begins stripping.
She busies herself with her laptop, pulling up a blank doc, fidgeting with the text settings, but he can feel her gaze regardless. He yanks his t shirt over his head, sets it on her dresser. Unhooks his belt and pulls it out in one smooth motion. He watches her gaze trace a line down his spine, linger, and dart back to her computer.
He doesn’t feel less like a creep under her gaze, even knowing that he’s the cause of the lip pulled between her teeth, her fidgeting, the shaky breath that she thinks he can’t hear. She’s twenty-three, men her age don’t look like him.
His jeans go next. He folds them neatly, adjusts the waistband of his briefs. Thinks.
He turns and lifts a brow at her.
“Those can stay,” She says, a little too quickly, and Bucky can’t help the smirk – he knows he’s doing it, but he also knows that she’s struggling to remain unbiased.
Not likely. Not if he has his way.
“Nothing like a little nudity to bring roommates together,” He says, watches the amused glint in her eye.
“You’re my muse today,” She says, and fuck if he doesn’t like the sound of that, “It’s objective. Like nude models in an art class. Only, harder, because I have to paint the picture with words.”
“Couldn’t have just used a mirror?” He asks, and when the image of her stripped to nothing, sitting before a mirror and ruminating on her own body, flashes through his brain, he has to follow it up with grandmas and knitting, lest he sit down and already be at full attention.
“It’s pretty hard to be objective about your own body,” She murmurs. Then she pats her bed invitingly. It’s not sexual, but the motion sends a hot spike of desire down his spine anyway. The things he wishes he could do to her, here.
He approaches, touches the fluffy bedspread with one hand. She’s sitting cross legged at the bottom left corner, laptop at the ready. “How do you want me?” He asks again, lifting one knee to the bed. Her eyes drop to his thigh, dart away.
“You can sit up against my pillows,” she says. Clears her throat. “Get comfy. It might be a while.”
He does. Her bed is soft and downy and would be uncomfortably warm to sleep in, for him. It smells like her, as he sinks into the pile of pillows at the head of her bed. His bed has one, sad, flattened pillow at the head. He settles in comfortably, stretches his legs out. She has a king size bed, but he’s 6 feet tall and super soldiered up. He takes up a lot of it, and can feel the heat from her body where she sits by his calves.
“Perfect,” she says, aims a wide smile at him, and he levels her with an unimpressed stare. It’s the only defense he’s got against her gaze – green eyes raking every inch of his body.
He realizes quite suddenly that this is a terrible idea. This realization is cemented when, “Oh,” she says, “my glasses, hold on!”
She’s out of the room before he can blink.
“Fuck,” He whispers. “Fuck.”
“Okay, sorry!” She says, and then she’s crawling over the top of him to reach the other side of the bed. She’s seated before the image even presents itself to him – he could grab her right then and pin her, fuck her facedown until those glasses left prints on her face.
“Ready?” She says, as if he’s an active participant and not a cadaver for her to inspect and describe. “If you need a break or a snack, let me know.”
“M’fine,” he lies, and forces himself to shut his eyes so that he doesn’t stare at her. It’s pointless – his brain has endless files of images of her on a loop.
It’s torturous.
The room is silent. Cool. His eyelids glow red with warm light coming in through the window, the slanted golden bars warming his skin. Warmer still is the feeling of her gaze. Only the sound of the keyboard, her fingers, and the pauses between thoughts. He wonders what it’s like in that pause, where her brain goes. How it circles around the words she considers and how it narrows onto the ones she needs, the ones she types.
He wonders what she types about his body. She wonders what she thinks about his body. What words swim before her, and which is she picking to denote the lines and curves and sinews.
“Read it to me,” he says, and hears the hitch in her breath as her fingers pause. As she pauses.
“You- I don’t-“Then nothing.
He dares to open one eye, peers over at her. She’s not looking at him. She’s looking at her computer, fingers stalled over the keyboard, eyes darting across what she’s written. She’s flushed all across her chest, her cheeks.
“I don’t think that’s such a good idea,” She says, finally. “It’s pretty rough, I’ll have to do some editing before I turn it in.”
He nudges her with his calf, revels in the soft heat of her, has to make an effort not to let his brain scramble when she meets his gaze. “You know your writing kicks ass,” she rolls her eyes, drops her gaze. “The least you can do is let your muse hear the music, huh?”
“Fine,” she says, exasperated, “But if you laugh, I’ll ask Steve instead.”
“Good luck getting that man to strip for you,” A sharp smile, wickedly curve lips. “Not everyone falls prey to your feminine wiles.”
She flicks his calf. “Just you, huh?”
He doesn’t answer. The silence stretches long and tense and heavy. Her fingers rest on the keyboard, her lip pulled between her teeth. Bucky feels like his skin is too tight.
“Read it,” he intones, and the command there makes her straighten, dart her gaze to his. Those fucking glasses. It’s so hot in here.
“’It’s a thick kind of muscle, corded and dense, hefty even in relaxation. Under a dark smattering of hair, his thighs curve in a way that speaks of strength – stalwart like the trunk of a tree, ridges of muscles and veins. Virility in the plane of his stomach, skin smooth velvet wrapped over steel- ‘“ She clears her throat, pauses. “That one is a guess, obviously.”
“You can touch me.”
The words tumble out, leap from his mouth like parachuters. Jesus Christ, what the fuck is wrong with him? He closes his eyes to keep from looking at her, whatever expression she has in response to his outburst.
He bursts into flames when her fingers ghost over his calf. Feather light, almost ticklish. She wraps her hand around his ankle, utters a miniscule sigh. The touch retreats, the tapping of keys. It’s an effort for Bucky to leave his hands relaxed when her hand skitters up his knee, rests on his thigh. He’s hard, now, pretending that he’s not while his cock weeps against his boxers. What is she thinking?
She squeezes the meat of his thigh, massages it – his cock jumps, his fingers curl into fists. Then the touch is gone, achingly cold in its absence. Momentary tapping, and when her next touch lands on the bone of his hip, travels close to his pubic bone, he thinks he might pass out.
“M’sorry,” he says, and his voice is wrecked. He thinks if she keeps touching him like this he might come, the weeks of pining building up into a physical force that rooted at his spine.
She doesn’t respond. Her fingers, her hand flattens against his abdomen. Presses, caresses with a thumb. A curl of her fingers, and she’s dragging fingernails across his skin. He erupts in goosebumps, lets out a shaky breath that he knows, is certain she hears.
“Buck,” she says, far too quiet, far too intimate. He’s going to burn alive in this room, in her bed, under her touch. She types something else, sniffs. “’Under touch, he responds like an animal in danger – there is something alive and hungry under his skin. Golden brown and soft like heat, the stretch of fine skin along the hipbone, the trail of hair a wanderers path-“
He lets loose a bitch-like whimper when she fingers his happy trail. It’s embarrassingly reedy, high – he opens his eyes to look at her, then.
She’s wide-eyed, her laptop abandoned beside her. Closer now, sitting up with her legs folded under her, her fingers shaky and pressed below his bellybutton. He’s so hard it hurts.
“Bucky?” She all but whispers, “Can I-“
“Please,” his voice is as shattered as he is – his skin is stretched so tight over his body, he thinks if she doesn’t touch him, he might just fall to pieces right here in her bed. When her hand flattens against his stomach, slides across to his hip, he sighs.
When her fingers curl into the waistband of his boxers, he stutters a breath back in, sits up abruptly. Now their faces are only inches apart, her eyes dark, her lips parted – the caveman part of his brain does the only thing it can.
He imagines it must be like being hit by a freight train, the way he grabs her face and hauls her toward him, trapping her against him with his metal arm, crashing his lips into hers. She looses a whimpering moan, one that goes straight to his cock, as he peels her mouth open with his tongue, loses himself in the taste of her, lets his free hand travel up her back and into her hair.
She opens for him like a flower, vocal and expressive – he travels away from her mouth to lave kisses over her jaw and throat, her collarbone, flushed that beautiful pink. Her hands roam: through his hair, down his back, kneading the muscle there, his chest and shoulders. A hand travels down his metal arm where it anchors her to him, holding her still so he can rut up against her, the friction better than anything he ever imagined – until she moans at the pressure between her legs. He does it again, and again, her keening like hot nails to his gut.
“V’wanted you for so long,” he murmurs, hands rucking up her shirt, peeling it over her head – she detests bras, thank fucking god. “S’beautiful, sweetheart.”
“I-hh,” her breath catches in her throat when he palms one breast. “This can’t be real.”
“Real as it gets,” is all he can say before he closes his lips around her nipple, tugs, relishes the sound it wrenches from her. This is the reward he’ll take, before she tosses him out like yesterdays take out. So be it, if it’s only once. He’ll make the most of it.
He releases his hold on her, lets her tumble back onto the bed and follows her down. Hunts down the sun-warmed spots of her bare skin and nuzzles into them, biting and kissing, pressing his hips into her, shuddering. “What d’you want, sweetheart?”
Her eyes are squeezed shut, nipples peaked, her hands grasping emptily. Bucky slides his hand into one, lets her ground herself. She squeezes, takes a deep breath, “Can’t think, Buck,” she sighs, opens those beautiful eyes to peer tearily at him through her lashes. He wants to eat her whole. “Please, anything – please.”
Has anything ever sounded so sweet? He doesn’t think so. “I’ve got you, baby,” he coos, feels her grip tighten around his hand. “I’ll take care of you.” He spreads her out on the bed, strips her down to nothing but those fucking glasses, takes in the sight of her: wet and flushed and mewling underneath him, desperate for a touch. It’s better than every fantasy he’s come up with, he thinks as he drags his fingers up her thighs, squeezes and digs his thumbs in, spreads her wider.
Something like a sob breaks out of her, desperation and hunger under it, and Bucky doesn’t let her utter another plea before he attacks – he doesn’t have it in him to tease; he’s desperate to taste her, to feel her against his tongue.
She nearly wails when his mouth meets her cunt, his tongue dragging a wide stripe, the taste and sensation enough to nearly make him come in his pants right then. Let alone the feverish rise and fall of her chest, the feeling of her fingers carding through his hair while he homes in on her clit, experimenting to figure out what turns her into a mess. He finds it quickly, battling the closing of her legs at the burst of pleasure.
“Mm-mm,” he hums, forces her legs back open, pins them with his hands so she can’t escape him, chases out that spot until her thighs quiver under his fingers. He wants to take her completely apart, wants to ruin her so thoroughly she never comes back.
She’s saying his name, breathing it like a prayer, but he’s the one at a temple. His eyes fall shut inadvertently while he works, lost in her, flicking and sucking her clit until she’s trembling underneath him. When her breathing reaches that stuttering, uncontrollable pattern, he brings his hand around and circles his thumb into her clit, sinking his tongue into her and humming in pleasure.
It’s enough to send her over the edge, pulsing around his tongue while he fucks her through it, until her keening reaches a fever pitch of oversensitivity, and he backs off with a contented hum.
He only gives her half a moment to catch her breath, pressing soothing kisses into her thighs, murmuring sweet nothings while his fingers trace up her sides, massage her breasts. When he’s certain she won’t pass out on him, he flicks her arm lightly. Her eyelashes flutter, her gaze distant for a moment before it settles him.
“M’not done with you yet, kid,” he says, eyes flashing. She’s bleary eyed, already, jesus. He’s not even close to finished with her.
“Look at you,” he says, voice scratchy, “I wring one orgasm out of you and you’re already teary,” she does her best to level him with a glare, but it falls short of its mark. “M’gonna ruin you, sweetheart.”
That’s all the warning he gives her before he’s at it again, closing his mouth around her and pinning her hips to the bed when she jerks and tries to scoot away. He’s gentler this time, thoughtful, but he’s still going to make her come until she’s hoarse.
“Bucky,” the word is a broken plea, tears are running down her face in earnest now from overstimulation. He rewards her with a finger, groaning against her as she clenches around him. He coaxes another orgasm out of her this way, crooking and curling his fingers, the hot drag and pull bringing her closer and closer to the edge, until he can feel her ratchet up into her second orgasm.
He abandons her clit, curls his fingers to make up for the loss and finds that spot that has her moving underneath him, fighting his metal arm like she has a chance, which he has to chuckle at. He joins his fingers with his tongue, fucking her deep and hard, and when he presses one gentle metal finger to her clit again, she comes completely undone, shuddering and shaking underneath him as if she’s coming apart at the seams.
“Oh, honey, you feel so good around my fingers,” he murmurs, removing them gently, unable to help bringing them to his mouth.
She shudders, swallows at the sight. “Buck,” The word catches in her throat. “Please.”
“Please, what, baby?” She makes grabby hands at him, hauls him in and kisses him deep and desperate, her tongue seeking out his, slicking along his teeth. She’s so beautiful wrecked like this, eyelashes stuck together with tears, splotches of red high on her cheeks. “Two not enough? Need more?”
He tugs her lip into his mouth, sucks on it. Brings a hand up to her face, where he pokes her nose gently, threads his hand under the frames of the glasses, drags a thumb across the sleep-dark circles under her eyes, through the wetness there. “What do you need from me? I’ll give you anything you want,” he realizes the truth of the words as he says them, the depths to which he would sink to please her, “you just have to ask, doll.”
She mumbles something. He can hear it, thanks be to the serum, but he wants it louder. He needs it louder, so it’ll imprint in his memory. “Speak up,” he pinches her hip lightly, gives her his moms-love-me grin when she glares.
“You, Buck, I want you,” like he’s pulling teeth. He chuckles, a sound that travels up her spine.
“You’ve got me,” He murmurs, hands roaming. Up her thighs, squeezing, fitted around her hips, tracking the curve up to her ribs. His thumbs trace the curve of her breasts, and she sighs, a forlorn little sound. “You’ve had me for a while, squirt,” She squirms at the nickname, sighs when he fits his arm under the small of her back and draws her closer, their thighs aligned. “You sure?”
“Please,” she hums, hands traveling up his arms, squeezing. She squirms against him again, panting a little, and throws her head back, brows crunching together.
Who is he to deny a beautiful woman? He catches her in a kiss again, rids himself of his boxers. She’s more urgent now, impatient little hands grabbing at his boxers with him, wrapping around him when she has access. The sound he makes when she touches him harmonizes with the pleased little hum she lets out, jesus fuck, her lips quirking into a satisfied smile against his own. He presses his forehead into hers, hips jerking into her touch as she strokes him long and measured, thumb carding over the head.
“Bucky?” he opens his eyes, finds hers, feels like a caveman with his mouth hanging open and his body on autopilot, fucking into her hand. It’s almost too much to look her in the eyes while she’s touching him, but he manages, if only to feel her and see her in those fucking glasses at the same time. “God, you’re beautiful,” she says reverently. He feels the red flush travel across his cheeks.
“Can it, kid,” He says, nudging her jaw upward with his nose, biting a harsh mark there. “Compliments don’t work on old men.”
“I mean it,” she says, twisting her hand in a way that makes him groan. She drags her free hand up his stomach, scratches lightly with her nails – the hair on the back of his neck stands up, his eyes heavily lidded, flicking between the sight of her hand on his cock and her face.
Under his hands, her hips cant, seeking pressure that isn’t there. “So fucking beautiful, Buck,” she whispers, “There isn’t any goddamn assignment,” the words land like a bomb, hit him like a truck, “I just had to touch you, Buck, I couldn’t stand it any longer.”
He can’t think, can’t breathe. He comes down on her like a starving man, swallowing the rest of her words, teeth clacking, yanking her hands upward and pinning them, ever gentle with his left, while his right wriggled between them, lined himself up, dragging his cock through the slick between her legs and shuddering at the heat there, the promise there.
“Bucky,” She mewls, squirms under him, fights against his grip around her wrists. He closes his teeth around a pert nipple as he presses into her, the head of his cock slipping into that sweet, soft heaven. A shudder travels up his spine, a breath gusts out of him, “Fuck.”
Her eyes have fallen shut; pink lips spread to suck in air. While she adjusts, he presses a wet kiss to her sternum, watches her react. Says, “didn’t even have to trick me, sweetheart,” presses further, bottoms himself out with an “unhm,” and releases her hands, which find him immediately. She moves against him enough that he pulls out, presses back in, swallows the noises she makes as his eyes roll back into his head.
His name starts tumbling from her mouth, gorgeous; he sits back on his knees, hitches one of her legs up and starts fucking her in earnest, torn between watching her face while she comes apart, or watching where they’re joined, the slick heat of her pulling him in over and over.
He settles for the first, pistoning his hips, letting his hands fall where they please, which is essentially everywhere. He finds a spot that has her shouting, nails digging crescent moons into the meat of his bicep, scrabbling uselessly at his metal arm, she’s huffing these little, uh, uh, uhs, in time to his thrusts, each one a punch to his spine. Her throat is bared to him, igniting some awful carnal part of him, some alpha bullshit, but god if it doesn’t work for him. He draws his nose up the side of her neck, kisses the hinge of her jaw, drags his teeth back down, groans and snaps his hips harder when she whines and arches into him.
He jams his arm under her back, intones, “C’mere sweetheart,” and she comes willingly, he yanks her up into a higher arch and leans over her, fitting himself to her until he finds that spot again. “Listen to you, huh, s’that good?” He snakes his metal hand between them, nudges her clit, breathes, “fuck,” under his breath when she twitches around him, tightening impossibly around his cock as he lavishes her clit with attention. “Sound so pretty, baby, look s’beautiful like this.”
He can feel his release on the horizon, graspable if he chooses, but he’d rather stay like this forever, enveloped in her, punching those breaths out of her. She looks so fucking good spread on his cock, feels so good wrapped around him, he’s starting to lose sight of where he starts and she ends.
“I-ah,” she’s breathing heavier, flushed and ruined, Bucky wants to fuck her until she’s cross-eyed, until she can’t walk. “I’m gonna-“ Not surprising, given how overstimulated she is.
He redoubles his efforts, rolls his hips expertly, groans oh, god, when her heels find his back, digging in, demanding more. He finds himself talking without picking the words, “Yeah, sweetheart, I know,” uh, uh, “me too,” he’s practically folding her in half at this point, gripping her thighs hard enough to bruise, hoping to bruise. “Come for me, I wanna see it, wanna see if I got it right when I thought about it,” he moves his hand, lets his pubic bone rock against her clit, driving deep and staying there, thrusting up against that spot that has her choking underneath him.
He fucks her through her orgasm when it hits her, eyes glued to the image, committing it to memory for every future wet dream he’ll ever have. Her cunt throbs, spasmodically tensing; Bucky kisses the tears that have leaked down the side of her face, letting his release build until it hits him like a sack of bricks, his hips stuttering unevenly through its effects. He collapses carefully against her, with only just enough strength left in his bones not to crush her.
Her arms fall around him, heavy and sated. The heavy rise and fall of her chest, the frantic beating of her heart where they’re pressed together gradually slows, and Bucky pulls out, sensitive and raw. He doesn’t move from where he’s draped over her, face tucked into her neck, his arms snaked underneath her to hold her close.
“No assignment, huh,” He rumbles against her, and he knows the shaking is laughter. “I’d have stripped for you any time you asked, doll.”
“Some of us don’t speak fluent grunt,” She replied. Bucky lifted his head to stare, perplexed. She laughed again. “How was I supposed to know that you avoiding me and generally treating me like a kindergartener meant you wanted to fuck me?”
“How was I supposed to know my kid roommate has a thing for me?” He countered.
She shook her head. “I don’t know, Buck, maybe when I went behind your back to convince your best friend to have you move in with me?” She reached out to press her finger to his lower lip, tugging it downward and humming happily. “Took you long enough.”
Bucky caught her wrist, pressing a kiss to it. “Minx,” he muttered, “No more tomfoolery, squirt,” his gaze was dark and sated, “You want me, you come find me.”
“In that case,” she drawled, loosing her hand from his grip to card it through his hair, landing at his nape to yank him in for another kiss.