[Trent Brumby] [Kora]
They fall into the familiar rhythms of routine. Her laundry, his hands. His dinner. Her mouth. Her arms are hanging at her side when he returns from the washing machine, and she has that sense of movemet about her tonight, even when she's still, lounging like a predator against the frame of his couch. While he was walking away from her, her gaze lingered on him, this sort of feral objectification of the hard lines; the strong shoulders, the distinct line of his spine, the way his torso tapers to his waist, the cut of his obliques evident through the t-shirt from behind.
He is walking back, and the look is different: more contained, somehow - held back under her skin. She watches his feet on the floorboards, the weight and swing of his stride, then lifts her eyes to his face. When he is close enough to touch,she reaches out for him, stopping him with a touch, her hands on his elbow, on his hip, on his hand.
Her eyes close, and she breathes him in. Her features are still, but the expectant tension in her body is easily read. Breathing out, she opens her eyes, but doesn't look at him, not directly. Not yet. "I'm sorry," she tells him, then. "I don't know what to say."
[Trent Brumby] He stops because she asks him to, not with words but with hand. When he stops he looks to where she's lounging, shorter then he, leaning against his recently vacuumed sofa. Pale eyes watch her, take in the expression, the way her shoulders carry the tension of her beast, of more, and the way she doesn't look at him even after she opens those darker lashes to look away.
His hands reach up, slide across the sides of her face with his fingers cupping gently along her jaw and thumbs brushing over her cheeks. Gently he makes her look at him, tilting her head up to where he stands, too far back to be over her. Then, and only when their eyes meet, does he move in closer, drawing her to his chest where a hand slides around, nestles into her hair and holds her lightly to the strong width of his torso. His other is still on her face, stroking gently, as if she were human. He knows she's not, but it's the comfort he offers.
"It's okay, Kora," he tells her. But he also has no words. It's still raw, but he's trying to patch it up for now, to pretend it's not there. She's hurting and he doesn't want her to. Lowering his head he kisses her hair, breathes it in with his nose pressed into it.
[Kora] This close, every breath she takes smells like him. When he cups her face, there's a hint of resistance to her, this lingering physical tension that that does not so much break as shift from her jaw to her shoulders and her spine. There are different ways to measure this - the minute changes in her musculature when he is this close, with the moon on the back of her tongue and in the back of her mind, moving her blood like in some ancient tidal rhythm.
He lifts her face so that she has to look at him; look at him she does, close enough that their eyes are simply light against dark rather than gray against blue; close enough that their features lose definition. Skin becomes skin, the curve of a lower lip a singular thing, the prominence of a nose another. And so on: she can read his blood in his bones even this close, smell him with every breath. Maybe it is just her: the way her pupils are dilated with rage and tension, with his immediacy.
It's okay, he tells her. She gives him this taut little laugh, maybe it is just a rush of air, the release of some valve inside her. "I almost wish," she tells him, as he's pulling her close, folding her into his strong torso. " - that you'd yell at me."
That they'd clash. That something would happen. Some cleansing spasm of violence. That promise is in every taut line of her frame, in the heat of rage underneath her skin.
Her temple is against his jaw as he presses his nose into her hair. Oh, this close, the promise of the storm is woven into the strands, the city's pollution, the hint of the day's dust, tromped up from god knows where, her sweat, too. Her temple is pressed against his jaw, and her mouth is close to his throat, now, his thumb glinding along her cheek. He can feel the tension shifting in her body as she turns her mouth to catch the meat of his thumb between her teeth. Her breath is hot on his neck.
"Do you know why," she says, releasing his thumb, sliding her cheek so that he can continue the strangely gentle, sliding caress. "I like to knock on your door."
[Trent Brumby] "Would you feel better if I yelled at you, really?" He doesn't believe this. He doesn't believe that would solve anything, just make everything uglier. That he would yell at her would make it false. His anger had faded back, dived back in its place below the surface. This, touching her, talking to her quietly, is soothing to him. It gives him a place, this soothing of her, making him feel useful and needed.
Teeth clasp around his thumb, making it still, but also making a tightened line down into his groin. It's not something severe, but a stirring in him. He likes that. The warmth of her mouth, the sharpness of her teeth, a reminder that she was stronger and feral. That she could demand, if she wanted to - she just doesn't. Sometimes, a lot of the times, he wished she would, but he's finding his place with her. He had thought he found it, but that revelation had knocked him from that security. Now he's back to that stepping dance to try and find it again.
"No, I don't." His voice is deeper when he speaks low as he is to her then, partially into her hair.
[Kora] There isn't an answer when he returns her words back to her, in a question. He's right. She would not feel better. The instinct to violence is a deep one, reflexive and inhuman. She cannot express it in words that can be formed in a human throat, that fit into the dark webbing of a human mind. She cannot express it in words, because it is a wordless thing, the spike of inchoate rage a raw and vibrant thing inside her - neither animal nor human.
His nose is in her hair, his mouth near her ear. She feel his breath against her flesh, can see his Adam's apple working under his skin as he answers her, his voice deeper now, the vibrations rumbling through the cage of his chest. She reaches out and settles her hands around his waist, her palms flat against his body, her fingers splayed, her thumbs hooking through his belt loops, or simply over the waistband of his jeans.
"You open the door." She speaks in a low voice, almost inflectionless. It sounds like an answer. It sounds like the first sentence in a story. " - and I come in."
Her cheek curves against his, in the suggestion of a smile or a showing of teeth, and she holds his waist close to her body as she slides her booted foot between his bare ones, turning him in a slow, subtle circle that will leave their positions reversed. It is a dance like the one they dance now: again. She feels - raw - the absence of her pack, as if her arm, her ear, her side were cut off, as if she were wheeling blind in the staggered circle of a three-legged insect. Her awareness of his pain is different entirely, a fist of a thing under her rib cage.
"You open the door," she continues, moving slowly with him, some strange waltz or two-step, under the back of his thighs are against the back of his couch. " - and I come in. Everything smells like you. I come into your den, and you open it for me. And I can have you. Everything here is yours, but that doesn't matter, because you're mine. I can have you anywhere. Because you let me in.
"So I like knocking." Her nose is under his chin, now. He is not trapped against the sofa, but she stands close enough that she could pin him there with a push of her hips. Her breath is hot against his bared throat, her hair warm and tangled near his mouth, her body tense against his, her hands tightening around his waist. "I like it when you open the door."
[Trent Brumby] She has a way with words, but not only that, with the awareness in which she moves and makes demands of him, in that small way. Seconds ago he'd been reflecting on just that, and now he's looking for it. She's turning him around from where he stands and his grip on her lessens somewhat, doesn't fall away completely, but shifts from her cheek to the side of her neck where he caresses softly. The other has moved from her hair, down between her shoulder blades, dropping his elbow down along his side, over her hands that hold him in place.
A picture is painted, a clear one, where he can imagine how it might be for that. That doesn't do it for him, not in the way it does her. But being on the receiving end, knowing this is how she see's him, the way she takes notice of the smells in the place -which he knows but its different hearing it-, and how she likes to have him, just like that - boldly, simply. He doesn't want to let her in, he wants her to come through the door whenever she wants. But that is changing, the way she tells him how she likes it makes him consider why she's telling him this.
Is it a demand too? He's still trying to figure her out. Its indirect, a polite and subtle way compared to the claiming ways of her wolf. His body has reacted in this time, having a mind of its own, arousing him in simple words and memories of each time she's walked in. How it takes only seconds for her to be up on his body, legs around his waist. Now he's aware of her hovering close, breath on his neck, hands tightening on him and the knowledge the sofa is just behind him, trapped.
"I'll open the door for you," he's looking down at her now. They may have had some words yesterday, but that's done nothing to kill his desire for her. It burns in his gaze, blatantly.
[Kora] There is a sudden staccato drumbreat on the windows, the first edge of the storm that was promised on the horizon when she can in. The rain is driving, the sort of boiling storm that can turn a dry gully into a raging flood in a matter of minutes. They are too far from the roof to hear the beat of the ruinous rainstorm on the roof, but it clatters against the windows like marbles against glass. The sound of thunder is drowned by distance, but the intervening walls, by the solidity of the city around them. Out on the plains, you can see the storms for miles. Every thing is open to the sky, and one crack of lightning can spark a prairie fire that will burn for days. They’re at the edge of the plains, and nowhere close, wrapped up in the metal and concrete skin of a huge, human city. Close to the lake, where the Caern hugs the shore, you can still get an impression of that – flatness, that vast prairie sky.
Here, there’s just the rain. Her hands on his body. He is trying to puzzle out the threads of the story she’s telling him; and she’s just telling him the story. What happens when he opens the door; what happens when the wolf is invited in.
I’ll open the door for you he tells her, looking down now, his pale eyes blazing. She smiles and the expression is lazy, is hook-curved, lives on her mouth and in her body, if not her eyes, because she’s crawling under her skin, crawling into her skin, away from everything else. That sense of vast emptiness that lives where the totem dwelt, the way it feels to hunt, and maybe die, alone.
“I know,” she says, smiling as she traps him against the back of the couch, her muscled thigh between his legs, her left hip hard against his groin, her hands slowly crawling up as body, up his torso, over his laterals and his obliques, then around, to find the insertion of his trapezious, the way his broad muscles wrap around his spine, each well defined. She can feel his arousal hard against her hip; she presses forward, looking down between their bodies where they are nearly joined, then back up at his bright pale eyes.
“You want me to fuck you.” It’s teasing, just – but not coy, almost matter-of-fact. She’s looking up at him, now. Her own want is evident, in the flush of blood underneath her skin, the way her breasts rise and fall under the soft cotton t-shirt. She cradles his head in her hands, holding him back, and rises against him to find his mouth, kisses him deeply, seekingly, until she’s breathing in the air from his lungs. Then she breaks the kiss, breathing heavily against his mouth and jaw.
“I want dinner first.”
[Trent Brumby] Sometimes it has to be infuriating the way that he can still contain himself. He maybe burning inside, having visions of what he wants to do or have done to him and the desire to make it happen and happen now, but he's got control of it. Its part of his willing place, it means more to him to be told, for him to have that discipline. That was survival in his own Tribe, to be taught not to grab for everything you want, wait to be asked. He learned it well to the point that he enjoys it. He does that now, standing there trapped and aching.
He loves it. Thrives on it. The way her hands are caressing, and now how she teases him. It doesn't make him smile, he doesn't find it funny, its something deeper than that. His heart beats harder, thumping in his chest. Hands are light on her, just touching her back now, compliant, submissive. The more she demands, the less he does; a subconscious thing.
After she kisses him, makes his mouth hurt and his breathing come more rapid, deep and breathless, she says she wants food. His hands linger, slide along her sides with tickling fingertips. "Okay," he agrees, easily. She knows, all that while, he'll be hot with anticipation.
[Kora] "Okay?" She's smiling now. It's a razor thing, all sharp on the surface, with a gleam that catches across the edge, bright. She's smiling because she's in her body, in her skin, because she can see his pulse in his throat as she pulls away from his mouth, pressing the bridge of her nose against the line of his jaw, her own mouth ghosting down his throat as he agrees to get her dinner.
She tongues his pulse, tastes his skin, the doubled-beat of his hear reflected in his veins, watches his body move as he breathes, his hands lingering lightly on her torso, her own dropping back to his waist, where she holds him, flat-palmed, where she finds him through his jeans, presses her fingers around him, squeezing, insistent, for the lingering seconds as she tastes his heart through his skin, breathes him in with every beat of his heart. " - still okay, yeah?"
--
Then she breaks away.
"C'mon," she says, low, the flash of her white teeth in her mouth as she turns, tugging him after, this minute insistence of her hands at his waist, against the front tab of his jeans before she breaks contact altogether. "I'm hungry. Did you make me fish-n-chips? or taco-in-a-bag?"
She sends him a look back over her shoulder, and she's smiling because she doesn't have to think or be anything except right here, her nerve endings open and insistent, her body bright, her blood hot. The room seems darker around them. Maybe it's the storm outside. The lights flicker once, but the electricity still hums. The worst of the storm has abated, but the rain is still heavy, drowning. It doesn't matter. They're inside.
[Trent Brumby] His head is nodding slightly when she questions him with his sharp, feral smile. Those burning eyes shutting closed quickly as she finds him through his jeans and caresses along him, teasing in a way that makes his muscles tight in his thighs and troubles him to remain standing. His throat had exposed in that moment, chin tilting up with the close of his eyes and the exhale of air that becomes a strangled groan in his throat. There is no nod, no confirmation, and by the time he's looking back down to her, eyelids heavier now, she's already dragging him after her.
His breath still comes sharper through his parted mouth now, as he follows after her. A hand adjusts him briefly, not a lingering touch, just a more comfortable position. The tip of his tongue wets his mouth before he answers her questions. "Roast beef and vegetables." Never fish n chips or anything of the sort. Not unless she really has wanted that, then he's crumbed and grilled fish rather then deep fried it, fresh from the market himself.
Into the kitchen he goes, moving around to get her a plate. The food is in the oven, foiled in a dish so that it doesn't try out and the few holes through the foil letting steam escape so it doesn't become soggy. He moves through the kitchen with a single minded purpose, and handles the knife to cut slices of roast meat from the chunk with care.
[Kora] "Is it mooing?" she lingered at the threshold of the kitchen, freeing him at last from the neat hook of her index finger through his belt loops as he circles her and goes in search of a plate, of the foil-covered dish warming in the oven. Of silverware and a knife to slice out the roast beef. She's leaning against the archway frame, her left shoulde against the wood, her feet planted straight on the floor, her body a sort of concentric curve between the two points of contact with the frame, and her eyes are all on him. "I like it mooing."
There's a certain underscoring humor that suggests she's teasing him; like the question about fish and chips. Like the first time she complained that he did not have bacon in his fridge. There's always bacon, now. He's cutting the meat; her eyes are on his body, her own is bright and warm. The changing rhythm of the rain against his windows drags her attention away from him for a spare several seconds. It's feral, the half-canting look back toward the windows, toward the rain outside. It makes the interior feel closer and warmer, even in the artificial chill of the air conditioning.
"You already ate, yeah?" she asks him, her dark eyes flickering down his body as he moves, lingering at his abdomen, his waist and just below. Her hair is loose from the working of his fingers in the strands, from his mouth against them. "You're moving better. Feeling better, too?"
They fall into the familiar rhythms of routine. Her laundry, his hands. His dinner. Her mouth. Her arms are hanging at her side when he returns from the washing machine, and she has that sense of movemet about her tonight, even when she's still, lounging like a predator against the frame of his couch. While he was walking away from her, her gaze lingered on him, this sort of feral objectification of the hard lines; the strong shoulders, the distinct line of his spine, the way his torso tapers to his waist, the cut of his obliques evident through the t-shirt from behind.
He is walking back, and the look is different: more contained, somehow - held back under her skin. She watches his feet on the floorboards, the weight and swing of his stride, then lifts her eyes to his face. When he is close enough to touch,she reaches out for him, stopping him with a touch, her hands on his elbow, on his hip, on his hand.
Her eyes close, and she breathes him in. Her features are still, but the expectant tension in her body is easily read. Breathing out, she opens her eyes, but doesn't look at him, not directly. Not yet. "I'm sorry," she tells him, then. "I don't know what to say."
[Trent Brumby] He stops because she asks him to, not with words but with hand. When he stops he looks to where she's lounging, shorter then he, leaning against his recently vacuumed sofa. Pale eyes watch her, take in the expression, the way her shoulders carry the tension of her beast, of more, and the way she doesn't look at him even after she opens those darker lashes to look away.
His hands reach up, slide across the sides of her face with his fingers cupping gently along her jaw and thumbs brushing over her cheeks. Gently he makes her look at him, tilting her head up to where he stands, too far back to be over her. Then, and only when their eyes meet, does he move in closer, drawing her to his chest where a hand slides around, nestles into her hair and holds her lightly to the strong width of his torso. His other is still on her face, stroking gently, as if she were human. He knows she's not, but it's the comfort he offers.
"It's okay, Kora," he tells her. But he also has no words. It's still raw, but he's trying to patch it up for now, to pretend it's not there. She's hurting and he doesn't want her to. Lowering his head he kisses her hair, breathes it in with his nose pressed into it.
[Kora] This close, every breath she takes smells like him. When he cups her face, there's a hint of resistance to her, this lingering physical tension that that does not so much break as shift from her jaw to her shoulders and her spine. There are different ways to measure this - the minute changes in her musculature when he is this close, with the moon on the back of her tongue and in the back of her mind, moving her blood like in some ancient tidal rhythm.
He lifts her face so that she has to look at him; look at him she does, close enough that their eyes are simply light against dark rather than gray against blue; close enough that their features lose definition. Skin becomes skin, the curve of a lower lip a singular thing, the prominence of a nose another. And so on: she can read his blood in his bones even this close, smell him with every breath. Maybe it is just her: the way her pupils are dilated with rage and tension, with his immediacy.
It's okay, he tells her. She gives him this taut little laugh, maybe it is just a rush of air, the release of some valve inside her. "I almost wish," she tells him, as he's pulling her close, folding her into his strong torso. " - that you'd yell at me."
That they'd clash. That something would happen. Some cleansing spasm of violence. That promise is in every taut line of her frame, in the heat of rage underneath her skin.
Her temple is against his jaw as he presses his nose into her hair. Oh, this close, the promise of the storm is woven into the strands, the city's pollution, the hint of the day's dust, tromped up from god knows where, her sweat, too. Her temple is pressed against his jaw, and her mouth is close to his throat, now, his thumb glinding along her cheek. He can feel the tension shifting in her body as she turns her mouth to catch the meat of his thumb between her teeth. Her breath is hot on his neck.
"Do you know why," she says, releasing his thumb, sliding her cheek so that he can continue the strangely gentle, sliding caress. "I like to knock on your door."
[Trent Brumby] "Would you feel better if I yelled at you, really?" He doesn't believe this. He doesn't believe that would solve anything, just make everything uglier. That he would yell at her would make it false. His anger had faded back, dived back in its place below the surface. This, touching her, talking to her quietly, is soothing to him. It gives him a place, this soothing of her, making him feel useful and needed.
Teeth clasp around his thumb, making it still, but also making a tightened line down into his groin. It's not something severe, but a stirring in him. He likes that. The warmth of her mouth, the sharpness of her teeth, a reminder that she was stronger and feral. That she could demand, if she wanted to - she just doesn't. Sometimes, a lot of the times, he wished she would, but he's finding his place with her. He had thought he found it, but that revelation had knocked him from that security. Now he's back to that stepping dance to try and find it again.
"No, I don't." His voice is deeper when he speaks low as he is to her then, partially into her hair.
[Kora] There isn't an answer when he returns her words back to her, in a question. He's right. She would not feel better. The instinct to violence is a deep one, reflexive and inhuman. She cannot express it in words that can be formed in a human throat, that fit into the dark webbing of a human mind. She cannot express it in words, because it is a wordless thing, the spike of inchoate rage a raw and vibrant thing inside her - neither animal nor human.
His nose is in her hair, his mouth near her ear. She feel his breath against her flesh, can see his Adam's apple working under his skin as he answers her, his voice deeper now, the vibrations rumbling through the cage of his chest. She reaches out and settles her hands around his waist, her palms flat against his body, her fingers splayed, her thumbs hooking through his belt loops, or simply over the waistband of his jeans.
"You open the door." She speaks in a low voice, almost inflectionless. It sounds like an answer. It sounds like the first sentence in a story. " - and I come in."
Her cheek curves against his, in the suggestion of a smile or a showing of teeth, and she holds his waist close to her body as she slides her booted foot between his bare ones, turning him in a slow, subtle circle that will leave their positions reversed. It is a dance like the one they dance now: again. She feels - raw - the absence of her pack, as if her arm, her ear, her side were cut off, as if she were wheeling blind in the staggered circle of a three-legged insect. Her awareness of his pain is different entirely, a fist of a thing under her rib cage.
"You open the door," she continues, moving slowly with him, some strange waltz or two-step, under the back of his thighs are against the back of his couch. " - and I come in. Everything smells like you. I come into your den, and you open it for me. And I can have you. Everything here is yours, but that doesn't matter, because you're mine. I can have you anywhere. Because you let me in.
"So I like knocking." Her nose is under his chin, now. He is not trapped against the sofa, but she stands close enough that she could pin him there with a push of her hips. Her breath is hot against his bared throat, her hair warm and tangled near his mouth, her body tense against his, her hands tightening around his waist. "I like it when you open the door."
[Trent Brumby] She has a way with words, but not only that, with the awareness in which she moves and makes demands of him, in that small way. Seconds ago he'd been reflecting on just that, and now he's looking for it. She's turning him around from where he stands and his grip on her lessens somewhat, doesn't fall away completely, but shifts from her cheek to the side of her neck where he caresses softly. The other has moved from her hair, down between her shoulder blades, dropping his elbow down along his side, over her hands that hold him in place.
A picture is painted, a clear one, where he can imagine how it might be for that. That doesn't do it for him, not in the way it does her. But being on the receiving end, knowing this is how she see's him, the way she takes notice of the smells in the place -which he knows but its different hearing it-, and how she likes to have him, just like that - boldly, simply. He doesn't want to let her in, he wants her to come through the door whenever she wants. But that is changing, the way she tells him how she likes it makes him consider why she's telling him this.
Is it a demand too? He's still trying to figure her out. Its indirect, a polite and subtle way compared to the claiming ways of her wolf. His body has reacted in this time, having a mind of its own, arousing him in simple words and memories of each time she's walked in. How it takes only seconds for her to be up on his body, legs around his waist. Now he's aware of her hovering close, breath on his neck, hands tightening on him and the knowledge the sofa is just behind him, trapped.
"I'll open the door for you," he's looking down at her now. They may have had some words yesterday, but that's done nothing to kill his desire for her. It burns in his gaze, blatantly.
[Kora] There is a sudden staccato drumbreat on the windows, the first edge of the storm that was promised on the horizon when she can in. The rain is driving, the sort of boiling storm that can turn a dry gully into a raging flood in a matter of minutes. They are too far from the roof to hear the beat of the ruinous rainstorm on the roof, but it clatters against the windows like marbles against glass. The sound of thunder is drowned by distance, but the intervening walls, by the solidity of the city around them. Out on the plains, you can see the storms for miles. Every thing is open to the sky, and one crack of lightning can spark a prairie fire that will burn for days. They’re at the edge of the plains, and nowhere close, wrapped up in the metal and concrete skin of a huge, human city. Close to the lake, where the Caern hugs the shore, you can still get an impression of that – flatness, that vast prairie sky.
Here, there’s just the rain. Her hands on his body. He is trying to puzzle out the threads of the story she’s telling him; and she’s just telling him the story. What happens when he opens the door; what happens when the wolf is invited in.
I’ll open the door for you he tells her, looking down now, his pale eyes blazing. She smiles and the expression is lazy, is hook-curved, lives on her mouth and in her body, if not her eyes, because she’s crawling under her skin, crawling into her skin, away from everything else. That sense of vast emptiness that lives where the totem dwelt, the way it feels to hunt, and maybe die, alone.
“I know,” she says, smiling as she traps him against the back of the couch, her muscled thigh between his legs, her left hip hard against his groin, her hands slowly crawling up as body, up his torso, over his laterals and his obliques, then around, to find the insertion of his trapezious, the way his broad muscles wrap around his spine, each well defined. She can feel his arousal hard against her hip; she presses forward, looking down between their bodies where they are nearly joined, then back up at his bright pale eyes.
“You want me to fuck you.” It’s teasing, just – but not coy, almost matter-of-fact. She’s looking up at him, now. Her own want is evident, in the flush of blood underneath her skin, the way her breasts rise and fall under the soft cotton t-shirt. She cradles his head in her hands, holding him back, and rises against him to find his mouth, kisses him deeply, seekingly, until she’s breathing in the air from his lungs. Then she breaks the kiss, breathing heavily against his mouth and jaw.
“I want dinner first.”
[Trent Brumby] Sometimes it has to be infuriating the way that he can still contain himself. He maybe burning inside, having visions of what he wants to do or have done to him and the desire to make it happen and happen now, but he's got control of it. Its part of his willing place, it means more to him to be told, for him to have that discipline. That was survival in his own Tribe, to be taught not to grab for everything you want, wait to be asked. He learned it well to the point that he enjoys it. He does that now, standing there trapped and aching.
He loves it. Thrives on it. The way her hands are caressing, and now how she teases him. It doesn't make him smile, he doesn't find it funny, its something deeper than that. His heart beats harder, thumping in his chest. Hands are light on her, just touching her back now, compliant, submissive. The more she demands, the less he does; a subconscious thing.
After she kisses him, makes his mouth hurt and his breathing come more rapid, deep and breathless, she says she wants food. His hands linger, slide along her sides with tickling fingertips. "Okay," he agrees, easily. She knows, all that while, he'll be hot with anticipation.
[Kora] "Okay?" She's smiling now. It's a razor thing, all sharp on the surface, with a gleam that catches across the edge, bright. She's smiling because she's in her body, in her skin, because she can see his pulse in his throat as she pulls away from his mouth, pressing the bridge of her nose against the line of his jaw, her own mouth ghosting down his throat as he agrees to get her dinner.
She tongues his pulse, tastes his skin, the doubled-beat of his hear reflected in his veins, watches his body move as he breathes, his hands lingering lightly on her torso, her own dropping back to his waist, where she holds him, flat-palmed, where she finds him through his jeans, presses her fingers around him, squeezing, insistent, for the lingering seconds as she tastes his heart through his skin, breathes him in with every beat of his heart. " - still okay, yeah?"
--
Then she breaks away.
"C'mon," she says, low, the flash of her white teeth in her mouth as she turns, tugging him after, this minute insistence of her hands at his waist, against the front tab of his jeans before she breaks contact altogether. "I'm hungry. Did you make me fish-n-chips? or taco-in-a-bag?"
She sends him a look back over her shoulder, and she's smiling because she doesn't have to think or be anything except right here, her nerve endings open and insistent, her body bright, her blood hot. The room seems darker around them. Maybe it's the storm outside. The lights flicker once, but the electricity still hums. The worst of the storm has abated, but the rain is still heavy, drowning. It doesn't matter. They're inside.
[Trent Brumby] His head is nodding slightly when she questions him with his sharp, feral smile. Those burning eyes shutting closed quickly as she finds him through his jeans and caresses along him, teasing in a way that makes his muscles tight in his thighs and troubles him to remain standing. His throat had exposed in that moment, chin tilting up with the close of his eyes and the exhale of air that becomes a strangled groan in his throat. There is no nod, no confirmation, and by the time he's looking back down to her, eyelids heavier now, she's already dragging him after her.
His breath still comes sharper through his parted mouth now, as he follows after her. A hand adjusts him briefly, not a lingering touch, just a more comfortable position. The tip of his tongue wets his mouth before he answers her questions. "Roast beef and vegetables." Never fish n chips or anything of the sort. Not unless she really has wanted that, then he's crumbed and grilled fish rather then deep fried it, fresh from the market himself.
Into the kitchen he goes, moving around to get her a plate. The food is in the oven, foiled in a dish so that it doesn't try out and the few holes through the foil letting steam escape so it doesn't become soggy. He moves through the kitchen with a single minded purpose, and handles the knife to cut slices of roast meat from the chunk with care.
[Kora] "Is it mooing?" she lingered at the threshold of the kitchen, freeing him at last from the neat hook of her index finger through his belt loops as he circles her and goes in search of a plate, of the foil-covered dish warming in the oven. Of silverware and a knife to slice out the roast beef. She's leaning against the archway frame, her left shoulde against the wood, her feet planted straight on the floor, her body a sort of concentric curve between the two points of contact with the frame, and her eyes are all on him. "I like it mooing."
There's a certain underscoring humor that suggests she's teasing him; like the question about fish and chips. Like the first time she complained that he did not have bacon in his fridge. There's always bacon, now. He's cutting the meat; her eyes are on his body, her own is bright and warm. The changing rhythm of the rain against his windows drags her attention away from him for a spare several seconds. It's feral, the half-canting look back toward the windows, toward the rain outside. It makes the interior feel closer and warmer, even in the artificial chill of the air conditioning.
"You already ate, yeah?" she asks him, her dark eyes flickering down his body as he moves, lingering at his abdomen, his waist and just below. Her hair is loose from the working of his fingers in the strands, from his mouth against them. "You're moving better. Feeling better, too?"
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