( obvious spots for a secret. a locked drawer. the little tripwires of her neve-endings, the parts of her body where her sighs still live and breathe, pressure points that arch under his sweeping thumb, the clasps where she comes unlatched prettily. old hiding places he used to love. still does — she can feel it in the kiss-swollen pout of her mouth, an insecurity kissed right out of her along with her oxygen. wary of time, wary of distance, wary of what rusts in absence.
she nips back a pearly smile. not a tease, not a play — just the giddy shimmer that comes with making her own invaluable find: she must still feel, taste, sound like home. not so broken or reshaped that his body has forgotten how to want her. too wanted to ever go forgotten again.
he still tastes like her favorite oral fixations: spearmint, nicotine, jake. if one wasn't in her mouth back then, another always was, anora mikheeva's holy trinity of filthy habits. her tongue flicks out, drags him up by the hair to chase the flavor again. gripped too tight, like he might disappear if he travels too far down her body.
the rest of him is as familiar as it isn't — ridges of new muscle her fingertips slide over, trespassing underneath the hem of his henley. prison-strong, made hardier behind bars. her heart tightens. not arousal. not not arousal. it's an ache closer to remorse. for things she's missed. showing up to the trial, but not the pen pal letters, conjugal visits, one-a-day phone calls. what she might've gotten to see play out, if she hadn't been so fucking scared. )
Uh huh.
( dealer's choice what it's agreement to, dripping off her tongue like caramel. melted into something sweet, distracted. probably his guess. probably his observation of the obvious: you're making me work for it, as if she's ever let him have it easy. probably the solid press of his thigh between hers, her own squeezing a bracket around it. dragging herself against him in slow, syrupy glides, cunt to muscle, rough denim to lace. indulgent, unrushed, unconsciously — like a lazy sunday morning, soft warmth, nowhere else to be. she laughs a beat late, like she's only just now paying attention. )
That vibrator's 24K, sweetheart. Show some respect. ( trick of the trade he taught her: sometimes the obvious is so obvious, it's missed. other tricks of the trade: the well-made false bottom to that drawer, ani's matryoshka doll of secrets. treasure worth hiding well, even if it meant nothing to anyone but her. a sound chimes out of her, wound-up like a music box. lyrically closer to a whine, eyes hazy, dare and hint both: ) Second clue? Try goin' lower. Ain't the first time you're gonna have to talk your way into somethin' tight.
no subject
she nips back a pearly smile. not a tease, not a play — just the giddy shimmer that comes with making her own invaluable find: she must still feel, taste, sound like home. not so broken or reshaped that his body has forgotten how to want her. too wanted to ever go forgotten again.
he still tastes like her favorite oral fixations: spearmint, nicotine, jake. if one wasn't in her mouth back then, another always was, anora mikheeva's holy trinity of filthy habits. her tongue flicks out, drags him up by the hair to chase the flavor again. gripped too tight, like he might disappear if he travels too far down her body.
the rest of him is as familiar as it isn't — ridges of new muscle her fingertips slide over, trespassing underneath the hem of his henley. prison-strong, made hardier behind bars. her heart tightens. not arousal. not not arousal. it's an ache closer to remorse. for things she's missed. showing up to the trial, but not the pen pal letters, conjugal visits, one-a-day phone calls. what she might've gotten to see play out, if she hadn't been so fucking scared. )
Uh huh.
( dealer's choice what it's agreement to, dripping off her tongue like caramel. melted into something sweet, distracted. probably his guess. probably his observation of the obvious: you're making me work for it, as if she's ever let him have it easy. probably the solid press of his thigh between hers, her own squeezing a bracket around it. dragging herself against him in slow, syrupy glides, cunt to muscle, rough denim to lace. indulgent, unrushed, unconsciously — like a lazy sunday morning, soft warmth, nowhere else to be. she laughs a beat late, like she's only just now paying attention. )
That vibrator's 24K, sweetheart. Show some respect. ( trick of the trade he taught her: sometimes the obvious is so obvious, it's missed. other tricks of the trade: the well-made false bottom to that drawer, ani's matryoshka doll of secrets. treasure worth hiding well, even if it meant nothing to anyone but her. a sound chimes out of her, wound-up like a music box. lyrically closer to a whine, eyes hazy, dare and hint both: ) Second clue? Try goin' lower. Ain't the first time you're gonna have to talk your way into somethin' tight.