[ His cock jumps. Hard. Twitching with a jerk of his hips, proof that she still fucking owns him, and Jake laughs with a strain in his throat and his fingers digging into her hip. Yeah — she does. Yeah — she still drives him fucking crazy. I'll wear it if you can find it, meaning that she kept it, like she kept the postcard, and the good memories, and the bad ones, and his lit up, ambitious, greedy fucking heart. Still and still and still and always.
He kisses her. Bruising, tender, both things all at once. His palm skips upward and over the ladder of her ribs, dragging hard-won calluses, right up to the underside of her breast. His thumb swipes at the soft swell of it. Tease, play, calling then raising: ]
You're making me work for it.
[ The kind of accusation that's approving, thick with the messy knot of attraction and desire and press of a denim zipper that might not be so comfortable in a couple of minutes. Playfully, he returns the glint in her eye with one of his own. It's all the warning before he rolls them, a strong thigh between her legs. His shoulders rolling as he crowds her into the floor. No other way to say Game on, honey. No other way except to bend his head and kiss her cheek. Chaste and slow and hiding a smile, her hair tickling his nose, smelling like smoke and cherries and too-early walks on the broadwalk. ]
How about here? [ X marks the spot, however it goes. Jake's mouth trails lower to the join of her shoulder. ] Or here? [ Lower and lower again: her collarbones, the spot between them, the place of her knitted sternum, between the valley of her breasts.
A beat. A hard stop, as his head stays bowed, his brows pushing together in thorough motion. And then, distractedly, blithely, as if he's only just remembered, a mouth that never shut up but a brain that was clocking in overtime as he looks up: ]
Locked drawer?
[ He snooped, before she found him here. Obviously, obviously, but didn't pick open the lock. Wary of time, wary of distance. Wary of what she might find sacred in a life where she didn't need him anymore. His face splits into another wide grin. ]
I thought that was where you kept your favorite vibrator.
no subject
He kisses her. Bruising, tender, both things all at once. His palm skips upward and over the ladder of her ribs, dragging hard-won calluses, right up to the underside of her breast. His thumb swipes at the soft swell of it. Tease, play, calling then raising: ]
You're making me work for it.
[ The kind of accusation that's approving, thick with the messy knot of attraction and desire and press of a denim zipper that might not be so comfortable in a couple of minutes. Playfully, he returns the glint in her eye with one of his own. It's all the warning before he rolls them, a strong thigh between her legs. His shoulders rolling as he crowds her into the floor. No other way to say Game on, honey. No other way except to bend his head and kiss her cheek. Chaste and slow and hiding a smile, her hair tickling his nose, smelling like smoke and cherries and too-early walks on the broadwalk. ]
How about here? [ X marks the spot, however it goes. Jake's mouth trails lower to the join of her shoulder. ] Or here? [ Lower and lower again: her collarbones, the spot between them, the place of her knitted sternum, between the valley of her breasts.
A beat. A hard stop, as his head stays bowed, his brows pushing together in thorough motion. And then, distractedly, blithely, as if he's only just remembered, a mouth that never shut up but a brain that was clocking in overtime as he looks up: ]
Locked drawer?
[ He snooped, before she found him here. Obviously, obviously, but didn't pick open the lock. Wary of time, wary of distance. Wary of what she might find sacred in a life where she didn't need him anymore. His face splits into another wide grin. ]
I thought that was where you kept your favorite vibrator.