( a frothy laugh in her throat, as obnoxiously loud as champagne-popping, fizz spraying. no care for the mess it makes, a little like embry's cum dribbling over his knuckles, leaking wetly onto her glossy headlines. it's meant to disgust her, no doubt. weak men always try to make you feel like your body is dirty when they're not allowed to touch it. like it's only clean and holy if they're the one inside it, theirs to defile. like ani hasn't been branded with sex symbol as often as the scarlet letter of slut, sold so many times she's stopped flinching. embry moore is just another sharp-smiling pretty piranha that treats her the same. vicious and hungry, hating the very thing he chases.
a finger swirls into the milky drip of a scoop over its bowl, dips onto her tongue with a melodic, sweet hum. an emphatic fuck you — a pointed reminder that what he scorns about her is exactly what makes his dick hard. it dislodges from her mouth with a wet, satisfied, stage-moan pop, wiping her saliva off on the crisp line of embry's no-crease, perfect little pant leg. little repressed boy playing dress-up in his brother's big boy clothes to impress him. )
You and everyone else, honey. Try my Playboy spread next time. My tits got good reviews.
( as unaffected as the idle shrug of her shoulders, as if he had simply said anora, i've watched all of your films, listened to every one of your songs. good to know her work still goes so appreciated by her biggest, most devoted fans. )
The London Fog's good. ( said to the same tune of: congratulations, you managed not to fuck it up, throwing a dog a bone. ) I always liked lavender.
( probably doesn't matter — it's just another piece of information for embry to lock in the vault when he wants to bribe her into behaving. she spares a glance at him sidelong, each relaxed of her breath hard-won. she knows what the play is: another man breaking her down slowly by touching her soft. )
Are you sure you're askin' as a brother, and not a fan? ( her mouth pouts, faux-sweet. ) 'Cause I can get you an autograph. Might even kiss it for another grand.
no subject
a finger swirls into the milky drip of a scoop over its bowl, dips onto her tongue with a melodic, sweet hum. an emphatic fuck you — a pointed reminder that what he scorns about her is exactly what makes his dick hard. it dislodges from her mouth with a wet, satisfied, stage-moan pop, wiping her saliva off on the crisp line of embry's no-crease, perfect little pant leg. little repressed boy playing dress-up in his brother's big boy clothes to impress him. )
You and everyone else, honey. Try my Playboy spread next time. My tits got good reviews.
( as unaffected as the idle shrug of her shoulders, as if he had simply said anora, i've watched all of your films, listened to every one of your songs. good to know her work still goes so appreciated by her biggest, most devoted fans. )
The London Fog's good. ( said to the same tune of: congratulations, you managed not to fuck it up, throwing a dog a bone. ) I always liked lavender.
( probably doesn't matter — it's just another piece of information for embry to lock in the vault when he wants to bribe her into behaving. she spares a glance at him sidelong, each relaxed of her breath hard-won. she knows what the play is: another man breaking her down slowly by touching her soft. )
Are you sure you're askin' as a brother, and not a fan? ( her mouth pouts, faux-sweet. ) 'Cause I can get you an autograph. Might even kiss it for another grand.