[She meets his gaze for a moment at least, eyes colored dark and heady. Even in the moment there's something sharp in there. It's a good thing that he doesn't stop; there's an or else to that sharpness. Responsive to touch and thrust, at least, if not words, she loses some of her intensity as her head lolls to the side, mouth dropped open, loose in the neck. The pitch of her moan climbs higher; the grip of her hand tightens, insistent.
The answer to his question could be: maybe yes. The real answer is in a room somewhere else, simultaneous feeling of slender rough fingers. The push of his fingers against her breast echoes a feeling already there, traces along skin prickled with gooseflesh. Her nipple, already stiff. There's almost an angry desperation to her breath as she lifts her hips against him, fucking herself even as she's being fucked.
Through her teeth, she manages two words, snatched out between high breaths:]
Shut. Up.
[--And if that's to him, or to Kate, belatedly--who knows, and she cuts off a moment later with another high moan, back arching, taken up with the moment.]
[ She tightens her grip and Erik rankles, nostrils flared, teeth sawed out into a grimace. ] Johanna. [ Grated, anger for anger. Her head is lolling and his fingertips are going all pins and needles; the lean of his forehead after hers has taken an aggressive tilt, raking for leverage.
All the while he’s rubbing his thumb in firm around the around the roll of her clit, breaths shorter, the pain shooting back through the bones of his arm (and all associated impatience) made manageable by moaning, arching desperation.
His brain isn’t in charge of what stays where. He doesn’t even bristle much when she tells him to shut up, jaw dropped open and gritted shut, low burning fury powering back up into her.
They can argue about manners and respect when he isn’t mounting up under his skin, muscle knitting tight in his shoulders, getting ready to come. ]
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no subject
The answer to his question could be: maybe yes. The real answer is in a room somewhere else, simultaneous feeling of slender rough fingers. The push of his fingers against her breast echoes a feeling already there, traces along skin prickled with gooseflesh. Her nipple, already stiff. There's almost an angry desperation to her breath as she lifts her hips against him, fucking herself even as she's being fucked.
Through her teeth, she manages two words, snatched out between high breaths:]
Shut. Up.
[--And if that's to him, or to Kate, belatedly--who knows, and she cuts off a moment later with another high moan, back arching, taken up with the moment.]
no subject
All the while he’s rubbing his thumb in firm around the around the roll of her clit, breaths shorter, the pain shooting back through the bones of his arm (and all associated impatience) made manageable by moaning, arching desperation.
His brain isn’t in charge of what stays where. He doesn’t even bristle much when she tells him to shut up, jaw dropped open and gritted shut, low burning fury powering back up into her.
They can argue about manners and respect when he isn’t mounting up under his skin, muscle knitting tight in his shoulders, getting ready to come. ]