[His hand moulds beneath hers, welcoming her pressure, her warmth; and fully taking her message. Carrying her hand on the back of his, his hand dedicates itself entirely to her breast. Running immersively like water over its swell and curves. Fingertips like kisses, then harder runs and rolls, against the pebbled knot at its peak. His knuckles are an ocean under her palm.
They've revelled and ecstasied in seamless sharing of control. Just now, she'd given him the space, safety, freedom to be uncontrolled. Now… empowered by her… he takes his and her permission to stop avoiding what he'd learned too well to do. See if it could be used for love not war. Control.
When he cranes his head to claim her jawline with his mouth; when his other hand moves flat against her inner back; even his twisting his torso beyond propulsion of their labor to flex his muscles, to surge up to greet her palm against him. Everything is, greedily yet self-possessedly, to take every millisecond, every micromotion, of all of this. Inhabit it fully. And do with it exactly what he most wants it to be.
Which is not so different from how he's been all along, because crucial to what he wants, to what stimulates him the most, is her pleasure and confidence and care.
But… now… his own side of those things, left (while he still needed to trust and believe that he wasn't inherently hurtful or manipulative to her) determinedly out of it… he finally lets come to bear.
To try to explain might seem like a distinction without a difference… but to be in it and feel it, for him, and seems also for her… is a whole new level.
The fingers of his right hand roll and fold on her nipple; then his palm splays again to hold the whole of her breast, cupping and compression. His left hand moves up her back to her shoulder blade, dragging his nails marklessly up her flesh; traces and follows the sculpted muscles of her shoulder, her bicep, down her forearm as far as he can reach, before drawing her arm out from around his back… to clasp her hand in his; continuous, liquid, extending their arms, to pin her hand above her head against the wall. Their fingers still interlocked, pliably, to run and rub his between her own. The shifting sinews of his forearm playing with hers, too. His other hand shifted inside her shirt, over her chest stretched open, sculpting her breast brought up and forward by the stretched muscles of her captured arm, and continued to work her over.
His lips and whisper tingle in her ear. Breathed, rhythmic, enforcing and enhancing the surging tide, the cresting of their hips.]
[action]
They've revelled and ecstasied in seamless sharing of control. Just now, she'd given him the space, safety, freedom to be uncontrolled. Now… empowered by her… he takes his and her permission to stop avoiding what he'd learned too well to do. See if it could be used for love not war. Control.
When he cranes his head to claim her jawline with his mouth; when his other hand moves flat against her inner back; even his twisting his torso beyond propulsion of their labor to flex his muscles, to surge up to greet her palm against him. Everything is, greedily yet self-possessedly, to take every millisecond, every micromotion, of all of this. Inhabit it fully. And do with it exactly what he most wants it to be.
Which is not so different from how he's been all along, because crucial to what he wants, to what stimulates him the most, is her pleasure and confidence and care.
But… now… his own side of those things, left (while he still needed to trust and believe that he wasn't inherently hurtful or manipulative to her) determinedly out of it… he finally lets come to bear.
To try to explain might seem like a distinction without a difference… but to be in it and feel it, for him, and seems also for her… is a whole new level.
The fingers of his right hand roll and fold on her nipple; then his palm splays again to hold the whole of her breast, cupping and compression. His left hand moves up her back to her shoulder blade, dragging his nails marklessly up her flesh; traces and follows the sculpted muscles of her shoulder, her bicep, down her forearm as far as he can reach, before drawing her arm out from around his back… to clasp her hand in his; continuous, liquid, extending their arms, to pin her hand above her head against the wall. Their fingers still interlocked, pliably, to run and rub his between her own. The shifting sinews of his forearm playing with hers, too. His other hand shifted inside her shirt, over her chest stretched open, sculpting her breast brought up and forward by the stretched muscles of her captured arm, and continued to work her over.
His lips and whisper tingle in her ear. Breathed, rhythmic, enforcing and enhancing the surging tide, the cresting of their hips.]
That's it…
I've got you…
¡…!
Come for me, Jyn