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(Outside: the rain, the rain.)
"Aren't you tired of me by now?" he asks her.
She seems to consider this, studying him for a moment before leaning over and placing a kiss just to the side of his mouth—bravely, he thinks, but very softly—and when she moves back she looks both proud of herself for having done it and anxious about its reception. His heart aches a bit with how full of hope she suddenly appears; how utterly delicate, the way she looks at him. So, it has come to London with them, whatever it is. It hasn't been left behind.
She says, quietly, "Not tired of you," as he smooths the wet hair from her face and then falls silent as he kisses her.
-
When they pause: he's rolled his hips forward; she has arched up to meet him, her thighs parted around his body, the floorboards cold and numbing under his palm. The motion makes their lips fall open. Breathing, the recognition of fucking of desire hanging between their mouths. She is bolder now, skims her warm tongue over his lower lip, and his cock twitches; he presses himself into her.
"Where," he asks, " —your bedroom?"
like a white shocking wire, when she smiles
It is temporary madness, it is strikingly natural, it is - she tastes sweet, she tastes like something sweet, he can feel the heat between her legs and can see the pant in her chest, her dark eyes glancing behind them, giving him a direction, her eyelashes black, black; her mouth wet.
In the doorway she slides her hand down and down and down, rests it on his erection as she kisses him—possessive, careful. She's undoing his belt.
we do not
wind it up it has no weights
springs wheels inside of
its slender self
Hands working, the click of metal, the release of a button, untucking his shirt—she's wrapped her fingers around him now, started to stroke, slowly, and he groans quietly into her damp hair, lets himself be coaxed toward orgasm. She tells him to sit, and he sits, and she kneels down in front of the bed and takes him into her mouth, his muscles rigid.
the slick feeling of her saliva
the brush of her tongue
He comes almost painfully, thrusting a little when it happens - unavoidably.
It is so quite new a thing
"Touch me," she says after, very sincerely—not a command, not yet (she is not so familiar with him yet) but it is something beyond a request, and he undresses her. It occurs to him, the fragility of first uncovering oneself to another: here is my body, do not treat it unkindly. Skin vulnerable, emotions vulnerable. So much exposed in pursuit of sensation.
He drags his mouth over one budding pink nipple and thinks he can hear her heart, frantic, clamorous in her chest. Her skin has a powdery scent, lovely as his nose nudges the underside of one breast, his hand on the back of her thigh, and when his fingertips skim inward she spreads herself wider; her hips rise up in a low wave from the bedsheets.
the poem which i do not write
—is a love-moan, projected, capturing the shudder produced by a flicked tongue, capturing the bend in a slim back, how the body writhes and writhes and tremors run through it.
His mouth between her outstretched legs, she murmurs unintelligibly and tugs at his hair until he sinks inside her, their hips aligned, unhurriedly rocking into one another—
her long hard body filled with surprise
—coming, her cry soft in his ear, the fine curve of her heels on his back. He follows.
-
"Last night," she says, when they have been silent for some minutes, her face across from his (the window a background to her cheek), "did you want me?" His face gives an answer before he can respond, and she smiles. "You're very polite."
"That's a forgiving word," he says.
"Hesitant? Uncertain?"
"Closer. Something like that."
"You make me nervous," she says, laughs at herself—a little sound, a small sound. Private, somehow. "But you don't at all. Does that make sense?"
"Yes."
"It's easy to imagine something where there isn't anything," she tells him. "I wondered if you'd reach out for me or sleep easily. Either seemed possible." Her eyebrows quirking gently: "You smile like that often, like you're almost amused. Are you? You're just letting me talk."
"Amused at myself, perhaps. I'm terrible with talking. Ask me something, I'll tell you."
"That's dangerous," she says. "You don't know what I'll ask."
"If you ask me something I don't want to answer, I'll distract you," he says, and presses his lips to her throat.