[ Like she doesn't know. Like it wasn't with her, fucked up from jetlag and starving at 2am, convincing a local restaurant to stay open just a little longer. She rocks herself against his thigh and Jake hums, tightening, pushing up, giving back, letting her take it; he looks down at her with an expression impossibly open and tender, like she isn't grinding over his jeans. His girl. His mean, mouthy, soulmate of a girl.
His left hand finds her first. A palm wrapping over her throat, a signal more than an attempt at a squeeze. He kisses her again, filthy and warm and open-mouthed. Spearmint sugar and spit and gum, passed from his mouth to hers. Jake grins, as blinding as fucking lights when he pulls away, mimes a lazy mockery of a salute, and drags himself lower. The rasp of lips and stubble against her breasts, her ribs, her belly; the glint of teeth as he bites into intricate lace, tugging her panties off with his thumbs and his mouth. Show and fucking tell.
He shoulders in between her legs. Right there, on the floor, palms cupping her hips. His cheek knocks softly into her knee and he kisses her everywhere but the small, swollen aftermark of her burn.
Doesn't avoid pressing his mouth right over her bruises. Not the way boyfriends say sorry in arguments, not the way husbands apologize for forgotten anniversaries — but the acknowledgement, instead. That it happened. That it all happened, in the dark, lying beside someone else in silk-soft sheets, while Jake stared up at cinderblock ceilings and thought about what he'd written behind a priceless painting in Saltburnt with bold, inky Cyrillic. Defacing the joy of a Fragonard because it was the next best thing to the back of a napkin. Five words, the vows that had come first before the practiced ones later: I'll take care of you. ]
Thought about you all the time, Ani.
[ He murmurs it into the softness of her thigh. Easy enough, to think he might just be talking about sex. That he's talking about that first moment when he puts his mouth over her, leisurely and wet and syrup-slow. That he's talking about the way his lashes jump, then close, the grunt before he tugs her closer, indulgent but needy, wanting to know if her thighs still shake the same. If she still tastes the same when he hungrily maps her open with his lips and his tongue and a finger, slick and easy, to give her something to clench down on. ]
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Personal best is four minutes.
[ Like she doesn't know. Like it wasn't with her, fucked up from jetlag and starving at 2am, convincing a local restaurant to stay open just a little longer. She rocks herself against his thigh and Jake hums, tightening, pushing up, giving back, letting her take it; he looks down at her with an expression impossibly open and tender, like she isn't grinding over his jeans. His girl. His mean, mouthy, soulmate of a girl.
His left hand finds her first. A palm wrapping over her throat, a signal more than an attempt at a squeeze. He kisses her again, filthy and warm and open-mouthed. Spearmint sugar and spit and gum, passed from his mouth to hers. Jake grins, as blinding as fucking lights when he pulls away, mimes a lazy mockery of a salute, and drags himself lower. The rasp of lips and stubble against her breasts, her ribs, her belly; the glint of teeth as he bites into intricate lace, tugging her panties off with his thumbs and his mouth. Show and fucking tell.
He shoulders in between her legs. Right there, on the floor, palms cupping her hips. His cheek knocks softly into her knee and he kisses her everywhere but the small, swollen aftermark of her burn.
Doesn't avoid pressing his mouth right over her bruises. Not the way boyfriends say sorry in arguments, not the way husbands apologize for forgotten anniversaries — but the acknowledgement, instead. That it happened. That it all happened, in the dark, lying beside someone else in silk-soft sheets, while Jake stared up at cinderblock ceilings and thought about what he'd written behind a priceless painting in Saltburnt with bold, inky Cyrillic. Defacing the joy of a Fragonard because it was the next best thing to the back of a napkin. Five words, the vows that had come first before the practiced ones later: I'll take care of you. ]
Thought about you all the time, Ani.
[ He murmurs it into the softness of her thigh. Easy enough, to think he might just be talking about sex. That he's talking about that first moment when he puts his mouth over her, leisurely and wet and syrup-slow. That he's talking about the way his lashes jump, then close, the grunt before he tugs her closer, indulgent but needy, wanting to know if her thighs still shake the same. If she still tastes the same when he hungrily maps her open with his lips and his tongue and a finger, slick and easy, to give her something to clench down on. ]