He was monitoring her responses carefully, for pain or discomfort or anything ambiguous. That was so unambiguous, he would have smiled if his mouth weren't otherwise engaged.
You're so good… …that could have given him pause. He was only good because he'd been trained. And he'd been trained because… What would it be like, (he'd wondered, in a moment of weakness—because he couldn't afford these thoughts; because he always had to imagine himself away) —to do this because he actually wanted to? With someone he liked?
However. In her voice, its effort and breath, her body language, and her hand still in his… all he felt was… that thrill of… passing between them… (The Force?) A bit lightheaded, not entirely convinced he wasn't dreaming; except the feel and smell and taste of her (all beautiful), and the renewed throb of his own reaction—real. This is real. …Not just awake but… real.
Because he did want to. And he did like her. He liked her so much.
(He loved…)
That did it. He wanted to make her climax more badly than he needed to, himself. If she didn't or couldn't, that was fine, he knew they were both enjoying this either way. But mother of skies, he was going to try.
He knew not to go too forceful or fast, not exert too much pressure, no jerkiness; keep it fluid and soft. But that didn't mean it couldn't intensify.
And he did that now. His every touch, hand and mouth, centered in on that one place, that one nerve cluster, from both sides, out an in; and it could no longer be called kissing because now there was no interruption, no empty space of air, no changing speeds: just heat and wet and soft tissues and epithelials and the insistent complementary rhythm of fingerpad and tongue like ocean waves and both their heartbeats thudding through that exquisite—beloved place.
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You're so good… …that could have given him pause. He was only good because he'd been trained. And he'd been trained because…
What would it be like, (he'd wondered, in a moment of weakness—because he couldn't afford these thoughts; because he always had to imagine himself away) —to do this because he actually wanted to? With someone he liked?
However. In her voice, its effort and breath, her body language, and her hand still in his… all he felt was… that thrill of… passing between them… (The Force?) A bit lightheaded, not entirely convinced he wasn't dreaming; except the feel and smell and taste of her (all beautiful), and the renewed throb of his own reaction—real. This is real. …Not just awake but… real.
Because he did want to. And he did like her. He liked her so much.
(He loved…)
That did it. He wanted to make her climax more badly than he needed to, himself. If she didn't or couldn't, that was fine, he knew they were both enjoying this either way. But mother of skies, he was going to try.
He knew not to go too forceful or fast, not exert too much pressure, no jerkiness; keep it fluid and soft. But that didn't mean it couldn't intensify.
And he did that now. His every touch, hand and mouth, centered in on that one place, that one nerve cluster, from both sides, out an in; and it could no longer be called kissing because now there was no interruption, no empty space of air, no changing speeds: just heat and wet and soft tissues and epithelials and the insistent complementary rhythm of fingerpad and tongue like ocean waves and both their heartbeats thudding through that exquisite—beloved place.