[ Call, response. His palms hook at her hips, pulling her close and flush with a firm tug. Like a nip at her jaw, or the kind of accusation that gets followed by a real, open kiss: You like that I'm a fucking dumbass. She's close and in his lap and he watches, through half-lidded eyes, the way the pretty bow of her mouth presses into the gold band. Anora Mikheeva, as sweet as she is mean. And she is so goddamn mean. His wife who laughs and writhes and loves and runs. His wife. His wife.
His hands catch at hers. Rolls his spine and curves his shoulders inward, in clear invitation for her to take the chain over his head. The grin on his face is smaller, flashing just for her. Marquise cut, clear as a bell:— ]
You just want me to fuck you while I'm wearing it.
[ As easy as following escape routes and paths to glory, his right palm sinks into the landscape at her back, just above her tailbone. His left unsnaps the chain; lets it unspool, snakelike metal flash, to disappear somewhere into her carpet.
The first time, he'd been blinded by it. All the sacred ways going back home centered him, to a place that felt permanent even when it wasn't; the loosening of pressure when he could turn off the light, roll over, and bury his nose into the soft crook of her throat. No more sirens, no more deadbolts. Houdini fucking bullshit. Practicing easy lifts, sleight of hand he'd known since he was barely fifteen, because the weight of something as simple as a ring threw him off his game.
He knows what it means, now. A thief takes what isn't his, expatriates, but a man stays. The gold band fits just as easily as it used to on his ring finger, and Jake grins wide. Doesn't show off the sight — just presses his left hand to the creamy-soft skin of her stomach, above her bellybutton, widening the gap of her robe. Feeling it, over seeing it. ]
I'll get you a new one, [ he says. Tells, intones, promises, because he never did ask what she did with hers. Angling in, he runs his mouth over her jaw, lips working over her skin when he murmurs, ] What do you want? Tereshchenko Blue? The Wittelsbach-Graff? [ A wick of a laugh. ] Botticelli? Klimt?
[ His hand skates up. Boyishly playful, teasing, brushing against her sides, light enough to almost be ticklish. An echo, softer: ]
no subject
His hands catch at hers. Rolls his spine and curves his shoulders inward, in clear invitation for her to take the chain over his head. The grin on his face is smaller, flashing just for her. Marquise cut, clear as a bell:— ]
You just want me to fuck you while I'm wearing it.
[ As easy as following escape routes and paths to glory, his right palm sinks into the landscape at her back, just above her tailbone. His left unsnaps the chain; lets it unspool, snakelike metal flash, to disappear somewhere into her carpet.
The first time, he'd been blinded by it. All the sacred ways going back home centered him, to a place that felt permanent even when it wasn't; the loosening of pressure when he could turn off the light, roll over, and bury his nose into the soft crook of her throat. No more sirens, no more deadbolts. Houdini fucking bullshit. Practicing easy lifts, sleight of hand he'd known since he was barely fifteen, because the weight of something as simple as a ring threw him off his game.
He knows what it means, now. A thief takes what isn't his, expatriates, but a man stays. The gold band fits just as easily as it used to on his ring finger, and Jake grins wide. Doesn't show off the sight — just presses his left hand to the creamy-soft skin of her stomach, above her bellybutton, widening the gap of her robe. Feeling it, over seeing it. ]
I'll get you a new one, [ he says. Tells, intones, promises, because he never did ask what she did with hers. Angling in, he runs his mouth over her jaw, lips working over her skin when he murmurs, ] What do you want? Tereshchenko Blue? The Wittelsbach-Graff? [ A wick of a laugh. ] Botticelli? Klimt?
[ His hand skates up. Boyishly playful, teasing, brushing against her sides, light enough to almost be ticklish. An echo, softer: ]
You and me, huh?