He shudders unbidden beneath the vibrant press of it, fingers tightening in their grip across her arms— one low, lone breath exhaling through his nose.
A noise escapes his throat, stern, impatient. It takes only a single moment— where her fingers begin the process of gracing her nightclothes— for him to reach high and snare her, yanking her to the mattress with a growl.
Victory is hers, it seems.
And neither of them will be sleeping for yet another night.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
He stops there, head lifting like a dog called to attention from its den.
“Do I...?’
They have kept busy. It would not be a stretch to imagine he makes himself less than pleasant for the effort of it, salt still clinging to his skin.
no subject
She punctuates this by kissing at his neck hard enough she's basically tasting him.
no subject
An attempt to steady himself, however futile.
“...I thought we were meant to sleep.”
Mild. Enduring. And far, far from scolding.
no subject
She's already unbuttoning her nightgown. "Noah. I need you." Her voice is less need and more mischief.
no subject
Victory is hers, it seems.
And neither of them will be sleeping for yet another night.