[ oh stars, she hadn't expected that. the steady drag of his lips over her clit does more to arch her back and draw her to him than his efforts to pull her over to the edge of the desk had. what starts as a noise of surprise lapses into a low grunt. rey's never been good at keeping quiet (never needed to), but the sounds she makes aren't lilting and soft either. they come from the bottom of her gut.
through the bond she can taste the tang of her own arousal on his lips. it slicks the way for his fingers to slide inside the warm damp of her, spreading her open for him. the hand that isn't preoccupied with steering the back of his head reaches out to grip the edge of the table to steady herself. she needs that anchor already.
her thighs twitch with the attention of his mouth, her whole body retreating from the direct attention, but he has her by the hips and she doesn't really want to go anywhere except that it's so much to take in. her fingernails scrape against the hard underneath of the lip of the desk.
his slowness, his caution, gives her time to get used to the feeling, to accustom herself to his presence. and it creates an opportunity for a fluttering impatience to crawl up the back of her throat, something building steadily. rey tries to plead with him but the syllables come out in nonsense. it comes through clearer in feelings and impressions that share freely across their connection, but still a chaotic jumble of need and instantaneous, instinctual feedback.
she uses his back for leverage, bucks her hips to draw his fingers in deeper, to swing up into his mouth and demand his tongue back against her clit. she can't budge far — one of his arms, at least, still holds her hip securely — but it sends a message. her fingers curl in his hair, nails scraping his scalp. the kind of gesture that begs to show him the way.
the hand gripping the table loosens and lets go, traveling instead over the material still covering her abdomen, her breasts. seeking to stir something and add to that steady warmth he floods her with. can he feel it? does it roll over him, this fever, as it takes hold of her? ]
no subject
through the bond she can taste the tang of her own arousal on his lips. it slicks the way for his fingers to slide inside the warm damp of her, spreading her open for him. the hand that isn't preoccupied with steering the back of his head reaches out to grip the edge of the table to steady herself. she needs that anchor already.
her thighs twitch with the attention of his mouth, her whole body retreating from the direct attention, but he has her by the hips and she doesn't really want to go anywhere except that it's so much to take in. her fingernails scrape against the hard underneath of the lip of the desk.
his slowness, his caution, gives her time to get used to the feeling, to accustom herself to his presence. and it creates an opportunity for a fluttering impatience to crawl up the back of her throat, something building steadily. rey tries to plead with him but the syllables come out in nonsense. it comes through clearer in feelings and impressions that share freely across their connection, but still a chaotic jumble of need and instantaneous, instinctual feedback.
she uses his back for leverage, bucks her hips to draw his fingers in deeper, to swing up into his mouth and demand his tongue back against her clit. she can't budge far — one of his arms, at least, still holds her hip securely — but it sends a message. her fingers curl in his hair, nails scraping his scalp. the kind of gesture that begs to show him the way.
the hand gripping the table loosens and lets go, traveling instead over the material still covering her abdomen, her breasts. seeking to stir something and add to that steady warmth he floods her with. can he feel it? does it roll over him, this fever, as it takes hold of her? ]