When he bends low to pick her up off her feet, Yennefer instinctively reaches out to him, letting him guide her arm around his neck and then lifting herself, even if she stops shy of wrapping her legs around his waist and simply resorts to gripping either side of him with her knees. The position draws her up higher along his body, letting her look down at him for a change, and she tucks her face against his, pressing her nose to his temple in an unconscious echo of his initiating.
It's rare, for her to feel this small or even helpless, and while she knows he would never perceive her that way, she's more willing to lower her defenses in his company, to allow him to be the one who bears her weight in his arms, who carries her across the small cottage while she presses herself in close and draws in the scent of him with a soft inhale.
"I can see to filling the tub." She offers the assurance to him before they reach it, her voice soft and barely above a whisper while their faces are so close together. He'll need to put her down first, but a part of her isn't eager to insist on that just yet, though she isn't trying to distract him either, or divert him from his intended path.
There's something about the way she nuzzles him back and buries herself against him. It makes him feel the closeness inside as well as out; like she's mirroring his own primal nature, no matter how strange it might otherwise appear to someone else. It's very natural for him.
Her offer is surprising, and he's grateful that it'll be easier than expected. The tub isn't too far, but he takes a moment to ask before he gets there.
"You need anythin' for it?" There might be spell components or the like; he's not particularly familiar with how her magic works, and he doesn't want to assume.
"I'll be alright." While she has no intention of drawing on his strength to fuel her own, at least not without warning, the mere benefit of having him to lean on should she suddenly feel weakened might go without saying at this point. She doesn't stray far, not even once he eventually sets her back down on her feet, bracing herself against the strength of his body as she stretches out a hand to hover over the top of the tub.
The water she can draw on from a nearby source, not more than can be spared, so as to maintain that balance. Calling on a different source to warm it takes a different spell, but she won't embrace the forbidden fire magic, instead utilizing hotter air and merging it into the water until the surface is visibly steaming.
Then, she slumps back against him a little, giving herself the opportunity to recover her strength, but she doesn't think he'll object to being used for purchase, not when it means so much of her is pressed against so much of him.
He keeps close at hand, ready to serve if called upon, but mostly, he's left to stand and marvel at her skill. It's like Gilia's, in so much that it's the command of water, but they execute it differently. It's beautiful to watch as she works.
When she slumps, he's ready to catch her. Though he certainly enjoys the press of her, his thoughts are far from bedding her in the moment. Sweeney just wants her to feel better. Safer. Free from the acts they'd had to partake in. The ones that still have the collar buckled around his neck and welted stripes painted over his back.
"You ready?" he asks, offering a hand to assist her getting into the tub, even though the rest of him remains against her so she won't fall backwards when she does.
"Mmhmm." While words fail her in the moment, that doesn't mean she's too exhausted to summon the strength to move, and she finds herself equally compelled to remain leaning against him for a little while longer, at least until necessity and the awareness of a gradually cooling bath finally drive her to withdraw.
She will take advantage of the hand he offers to step over and into the tub, slowly sinking down into the heated water until only her head and the tops of her shoulders are clearly visible, the rest of her partially obscured by the rippling surface. When she reaches forward with a dripping arm for one of the bottles sitting on the edge, it's so she can place a few drops of scented oil into the water, until the steam itself begins to carry the scent of lilac and gooseberry.
"Shame the tub's not big enough for two," she points out, finally leaning back against the side as she surveys him above her. It's not a suggestion she offers for any reason other than sensing he might also appreciate the opportunity to soak his tired limbs.
His chuckle is soft and low. "Oh, I'm not sure that tub's big 'nough fer the one'a me," he pokes gently. Sweeney would fit, surely, but not without his knees bent and peaked out of the water. Which isn't to say he wouldn't enjoy a bath, especially one with her; he just knows it's impractical.
While she's adding the oil, he's looking for a sponge. If he doesn't find one, a washcloth will do, so he can kneel at her side and get his hand under the water to tend her more fully.
"No, but you still might want the opportunity to clean up when I'm done here," Yennefer points out. Just because she's been more preoccupied with letting him wash off some of the crusting remnants of her own stage performance doesn't mean that his current state hasn't escaped her notice, and she doesn't want him to neglect himself in the process of prioritizing her.
Regardless, she watches him grab the sponge, reaching for her with it, leaning forward so he can start with her back as she draws her knees up closer to her chest and wraps her arms around them.
"I know something that will clean the water once I'm through," she murmurs, propping her cheek on her knee as she gives him a sideways glance. "Unless you'd rather smell like lilac and gooseberry."
Oh yes, this is much better. Sweeney sweeps her hair over her shoulder and takes turns between dipping the sponge into the water and drawing soft circles over her back.
"There're worse things than carryin' the smell of you 'round on me," he pokes with a small, lopsided smirk." He bends to place a soft kiss on the damp skin of her shoulder.
"Though I won't protest the opportunity for fresh water, either."
Otherwise he'll just hit the banya. He certainly doesn't want to impose.
Her smile is slow, and faint, but sincere, and she might seem a bit smaller compared to her normal demeanor, dark hair long and wet and falling well past her shoulders, even though she's gathered it to the front of herself so that it doesn't interfere too much with his efforts at washing her.
Most of what had dried or crusted onto her skin had come off with the cloth before, but she can't fault him the desire for a clean bath of his own afterward.
"Anyone with heightened senses will surely be able to tell where you've been," she points out, straightening again in order to offer him access to her front. But more than giving him the opportunity to wear her scent, she wants to see him equally cleansed of anything that might still be left behind from the festival. It's one more means of leaving all of that behind. Her eyes drop to the collar he's still wearing.
Sweeney's all too content to shift his attention to the front of her, though it does lead to more thoughts of being in the tub with her and his arm wrapped around her, his fingers playing with her clit to make her slosh bathwater onto the floor.
He does his best to keep has actual focus (mostly) on a more thorough washing, although it would be a lie to say he didn't attend her breasts more than was necessary. But her question catches him off-guard, and in the moment, he stills with the ghost of innocence.
"Are you willin'?"
It's something Sweeney's craved for the sake of symbolism, as much as to have her touch on his sensitive skin, but somewhere along the way, he had abandoned his hope for it. But now it's renewed, and there is cautious desire in his eyes when they dart up to hers.
He wasn't planning to ask for it; there's too much risk for it to be something sexual, and he doesn't want to obligate her to anything, especially in the midst of their mutual exhaustion. That said, if she accepts, he's ready to present himself, twisted with his head bowed and the buckle exposed. Truth is, he doesn't need the help; he just really wants it.
To her credit, Yennefer manages not to become too affected by his strokes over her, the lingering aches in her body overriding the potential for any stoked desire, but there is more color in her cheeks by the time her question gives him pause and he stills over her, her chest rising and falling a bit more quickly than it had been before he'd begun.
"I wouldn't have asked if I didn't want to," she murmurs, mouth curving in a bit of a lopsided smile, but she also hadn't been certain if his intent was to leave it on for some deeper reason, a motivation that wasn't clear from her perspective. Now, presented with the option to slip it off him herself, she wants to play a role in slowly stripping away any reminders of the festival, the way he had for her.
It's still gradual, her capacity for movement, but, gripping the sides of the tub, she can push herself up to kneeling out of the water more, rivulets running down her skin as she reaches out with damp fingers in wordless petition.
There's something invigorating in the act, and as she shifts, so does he. Getting up on his knees more properly, Sweeney curls deeply to expose the buckle at the back so she can easily see it. He wets his lip in the moment that hangs. It doesn't help that he's starting at a swath of her nakedness beneath the water's surface.
He longs for the sensation her fingers and lips, as well as the freedom that comes with them.
If he'd asked her to do this immediately after the stage, she might not have been able to fiddle with the buckle in the same way, her fingers cramped from so much clutching and grasping. But the heat of the water has soothed her stiffness, anything that might have had a hold on her, and she's relaxed enough to be able to accomplish the task deftly, easing the heavy collar away from his throat with a subtle scrunching of her nose at its weight in her hand.
No doubt he'll feel the relief that accompanies not having it clasped around his neck anymore, but even so, she lets it slip from her fingers to hit the floor with a dull thud and then sways forward to press her nose against his neck, breathing in the lingering scents of sweat and leather before urging a soft kiss there.
His breath trembles at the feel of her against his bared skin. It's all the more sensitive for the time trapped in confinement. He nuzzles against her softly, not looking to discourage the contact, only encourage the intimacy.
Sweeney feels the longing to serve her. Not as a submissive or a slave, but something born of raw affection; a desire to tend her as she tends him in a tandem act. It does seem funny, yet fitting, that his liberation should bring such a Want.
"Thank you," he whispers, the words sacred, even in the softness. It brings with it the image of him helping her out of the tub before drying her off, taking a knee as he does so and planting a soft kiss on the side of her ribs, near her breast but not on it.
Her lips flit over his throat, soft and tender, as though she wants to refamiliarize herself with this place of vulnerability before she places a more deliberate, sucking kiss there, the slightest flick of tongue. She isn't trying to incite him, or to necessarily spur him on to more, but with more of her strength returning, she doesn't shy away from initiating such things.
"I should be the one thanking you," she points out, and as his image plays across her mind, she moves to satisfy it, to give him her hand so that he can assist her in first stepping out of the tub and then beginning to dry her off with a clean cloth meant for that very purpose.
By the time he kneels before her, her hands are on him, fingers carding through his hair, nails lightly raking over his scalp; he presses that kiss to the side of her ribs and it's soft enough to elicit a trembling, her arms encircling his head as she draws him against the front of her body and merely holds him close, her heartbeat thudding calmly in his hearing.
His breath trembles at the sensation of her lips on his neck. In that moment, his body starts to move blood in a lower direction, and Sweeney remembers how tight his torn trousers are. But then she's standing, giving him what he wants, and he pushes the thought aside.
God, it feels so good. More than it has a right to, being as simple as it is. Just having her wrapped around him, her fingers in his hair and her skin on his face, is sublime. Sweeney takes several long breaths to savor the smell of her and the oil. His thoughts drift to lazier days where they might spend an afternoon indulging in bathing. How he would happily wash and braid her hair and--
He has to shift a little, but it doesn't help. Without pulling back, Sweeney lowers his hands to undo his trouser buttons, just to relieve the increasing pressure of his swelling flesh. Then they return to the small of her back, cradling her to him as he speckles her chest with soft kisses.
With the bath cleansing away all physical remnants of the stage, and the warm water relaxing her limbs, the only instinct that remains behind is the desire his kisses elicit, but it isn't a raging inferno that threatens to overwhelm her with its intensity. Instead, it's a slow build, a flickering fire that his touch conjures, adding just enough kindling to make her burn with wanting.
She doesn't want to push him away from her, but she does set a hand on his shoulder, applying just enough pressure there that it should be clear what she intends — to slowly nudge him onto his back, right there on the floor beside the tub, before she lowers herself on top of him.
The ends of her hair are still wet, dripping onto him, and her gaze is soft despite the harsh bruises on her body. She and Khoriya hadn't fucked, as much as they'd made it look like they had, and her hand reaches in between the spread of her own legs so she can slide it down the front of Sweeney's trousers, seeking to wrap fingers around his cock.
"I want you inside me," she whispers, decisive enough that he doesn't need to ask her if she's sure. "Please."
Sweeney would have been quite content to just dote against her damp skin. He certainly wasn't expected her to shift directions. So when she nudges his shoulder, he looks up with a furrow in his brow. Was she done with the affections? Ready to trade places for him to clean up? Both ideas are apparently incorrect.
She keeps applying pressure, and eventually it occurs to Sweeney that she wants him to actually lay down. As rigid as he is, he wasn't actually mentally prepared to have sex. Which isn't to say that his body can't jump on that train as it's starting out of the station.
A moan is sacrificed in offering as she takes hold of him, and his eyes roll beneath their lids at the honed sensation. All he can do in the moment is nod, tight and eager, as his hands find her hips to urge her forward. Sweeney tries not to think about how filthy he is, still stained with blood and sweat, as she straddles him, freshly-clean. He's free of the collar, and that's enough.
She doesn't care whether he's streaked in blood, stained in sweat, whether any of that smears off on her while she's mounting him, while her fingers are currently stroking along the length of his cock as she gazes down at him from above. Anything that rubs off on her is his; anything that's left behind on her skin afterward comes from him, and if she has to, she'll just fill the tub again, but for now, she wants his scent on her, marking her, replacing what Khoriya had left behind during their performance.
"You're staking your claim," she whispers, as his hands on his hips steady her, guide her, and she in turn rears up, slipping his cock out of his trousers and positioning herself above until she can feel his tip breaching her. While she might have needed his fingers first in any other instance, here she doesn't bother to wait for the accommodation, sinking down onto him, hissing softly at the pleasurable burn of the stretch that accompanies it.
"It doesn't matter what they saw on stage. What they believe they saw." Her hands reach for his, collecting them, drawing them upward so she can guide them to cup over her breasts, palm and squeeze her there before she begins to move on him, slowly undulating her hips. "Not when yours is the cock inside me now."
The honeyed words she spins are intoxicating, even though he doesn't feel like he's staking his claim. Quite to the contrary, it feels like she's staking hers, and fuck if it isn't sublime. The way she slides down is torturously delicious, and a whimper escapes when their hips meet.
Sweeney's all too willing to dote on her breasts; kneading, caressing, and plucking at her nipples. He savors the ride, but eventually, he can't help himself. Curling up tightly, his mouth takes to assisting, making sure she can enjoy more options of sensations. Well, that and he really enjoys sucking on them.
She's going to be a renewed mess by the time they're through, his blood and sweat and saliva smeared on her, and in a sense, she doesn't care. In another sense, she revels in it, the same way she's leaving her scent behind on him, lilac and gooseberry intermingled with the natural arousal between her legs that enables her to move a little more readily on him.
Her fingers slide up into his hair, as he latches onto her breasts, cradling him there against her, urging him on with breathless moans and gasps. The more attention he pays, the more aroused she becomes, and the more frictionless her movements. For a while, there aren't any words between them, just noises — soft whimpers from her, audible suction where his lips are tugging at a nipple, the steadily building slickness as she rocks up and down his length. It may not be the best place to do this, not on the hardwood flooring, but she's too desperate for him to care, too desiring to wait a second longer.
Fuck, how she makes him ache, even as she sates him. The hard surface and seated angle don't give him the ability to thrust, so he's stuck letting her ride him out. It's a different sensation the longer it goes on, and it's ever so delicious. It's not purely submissive, though he loves the way she holds him to her. Nor is it her using him for the rigidity of his prick, purely for her own pleasure.
It's giving and taking, and it leaves him heady in shared want. The more eager her bounce, the rougher she's met in answer; he tries to pull her down on him, as if it would compensate for his lack of upward thrust; his hand at her hip or the nape of her neck as the other tugs one nipple, and his mouth set to the other. Too often, he's left to trap it between his teeth while he fights to suck in short breaths around it in between groans. His toes flex as she urges him on towards his climax.
There's little elegance in this, simply feeling, and reaching for what feels good in the moment itself. Yennefer's own movements become harder, and jerking, rapidly so, until she's all but bouncing herself in his lap, a slave to sensations and seeking release for all the pent-up frustration that the stage performance had left her with. She's no longer tense, warmed by his hands and the soak in the bath, and it enables her to move with more abandon, ignoring any lingering ache from bruises or scratches that Khoriya's more vigorous pantomimes had inadvertently left behind.
Sweeney catches one of her nipples between his teeth and she cries out — not in pain, but in overwhelm, the tension in her body beginning to reach a peak that she knows will shatter but trying to stave it off for as long as she can. She wants him there with her, when she comes, wants to feel him pulse and throb inside her while she clenches and squeezes tight around him. It makes her movements even more erratic in the interim, her breathing sharper and hitching, as their sounds of pleasure build to become a louder chorus.
One of the struggles of the position is Sweeney has so little control over himself. He wants to feel her climax before he dares to, but it's her who is commanding the pace and force of the taking; he's really just along for the ride. The lingering pain of the night's prior activities only makes each touch more intense and raw.
Fuck, how it feels to be inside her. For her to take him. Choose him. Claim him.
There's nothin he can do when he senses the inevitable, except grab both of her hips hard enough to threaten bruises and yank down, leaving her grinding on him as he loses himself inside her. The force catches her nipple more tightly between his teeth as he cries out around it, his body unwilling to sacrifice the contact, no matter how slight. Once he's able to start the slope down the other side, he sucks it back firmly between his lips, working it eagerly as he pulses deep in her.
She'd swear he gets that much harder inside her right before he comes — cock throbbing, twitching as he spills deep — and those pulsations are what finally propel her over the edge right alongside him, alongside his teeth tugging on her nipple, to the point where she's convinced they may have even managed to climax simultaneously without even consciously trying to.
In his lap, she's shuddering, quaking even with his hands clamped down on her hips, keeping her from being able to move too drastically; when his teeth on her nipple turn into a warm, hard suction, she whines, grinding herself on him, prolonging those intense waves of her climax until she finally sags in his arms, unable to even so much as think about moving.
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It's rare, for her to feel this small or even helpless, and while she knows he would never perceive her that way, she's more willing to lower her defenses in his company, to allow him to be the one who bears her weight in his arms, who carries her across the small cottage while she presses herself in close and draws in the scent of him with a soft inhale.
"I can see to filling the tub." She offers the assurance to him before they reach it, her voice soft and barely above a whisper while their faces are so close together. He'll need to put her down first, but a part of her isn't eager to insist on that just yet, though she isn't trying to distract him either, or divert him from his intended path.
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Her offer is surprising, and he's grateful that it'll be easier than expected. The tub isn't too far, but he takes a moment to ask before he gets there.
"You need anythin' for it?" There might be spell components or the like; he's not particularly familiar with how her magic works, and he doesn't want to assume.
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The water she can draw on from a nearby source, not more than can be spared, so as to maintain that balance. Calling on a different source to warm it takes a different spell, but she won't embrace the forbidden fire magic, instead utilizing hotter air and merging it into the water until the surface is visibly steaming.
Then, she slumps back against him a little, giving herself the opportunity to recover her strength, but she doesn't think he'll object to being used for purchase, not when it means so much of her is pressed against so much of him.
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When she slumps, he's ready to catch her. Though he certainly enjoys the press of her, his thoughts are far from bedding her in the moment. Sweeney just wants her to feel better. Safer. Free from the acts they'd had to partake in. The ones that still have the collar buckled around his neck and welted stripes painted over his back.
"You ready?" he asks, offering a hand to assist her getting into the tub, even though the rest of him remains against her so she won't fall backwards when she does.
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She will take advantage of the hand he offers to step over and into the tub, slowly sinking down into the heated water until only her head and the tops of her shoulders are clearly visible, the rest of her partially obscured by the rippling surface. When she reaches forward with a dripping arm for one of the bottles sitting on the edge, it's so she can place a few drops of scented oil into the water, until the steam itself begins to carry the scent of lilac and gooseberry.
"Shame the tub's not big enough for two," she points out, finally leaning back against the side as she surveys him above her. It's not a suggestion she offers for any reason other than sensing he might also appreciate the opportunity to soak his tired limbs.
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While she's adding the oil, he's looking for a sponge. If he doesn't find one, a washcloth will do, so he can kneel at her side and get his hand under the water to tend her more fully.
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Regardless, she watches him grab the sponge, reaching for her with it, leaning forward so he can start with her back as she draws her knees up closer to her chest and wraps her arms around them.
"I know something that will clean the water once I'm through," she murmurs, propping her cheek on her knee as she gives him a sideways glance. "Unless you'd rather smell like lilac and gooseberry."
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"There're worse things than carryin' the smell of you 'round on me," he pokes with a small, lopsided smirk." He bends to place a soft kiss on the damp skin of her shoulder.
"Though I won't protest the opportunity for fresh water, either."
Otherwise he'll just hit the banya. He certainly doesn't want to impose.
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Most of what had dried or crusted onto her skin had come off with the cloth before, but she can't fault him the desire for a clean bath of his own afterward.
"Anyone with heightened senses will surely be able to tell where you've been," she points out, straightening again in order to offer him access to her front. But more than giving him the opportunity to wear her scent, she wants to see him equally cleansed of anything that might still be left behind from the festival. It's one more means of leaving all of that behind. Her eyes drop to the collar he's still wearing.
"Do you need help removing it?"
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He does his best to keep has actual focus (mostly) on a more thorough washing, although it would be a lie to say he didn't attend her breasts more than was necessary. But her question catches him off-guard, and in the moment, he stills with the ghost of innocence.
"Are you willin'?"
It's something Sweeney's craved for the sake of symbolism, as much as to have her touch on his sensitive skin, but somewhere along the way, he had abandoned his hope for it. But now it's renewed, and there is cautious desire in his eyes when they dart up to hers.
He wasn't planning to ask for it; there's too much risk for it to be something sexual, and he doesn't want to obligate her to anything, especially in the midst of their mutual exhaustion. That said, if she accepts, he's ready to present himself, twisted with his head bowed and the buckle exposed. Truth is, he doesn't need the help; he just really wants it.
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"I wouldn't have asked if I didn't want to," she murmurs, mouth curving in a bit of a lopsided smile, but she also hadn't been certain if his intent was to leave it on for some deeper reason, a motivation that wasn't clear from her perspective. Now, presented with the option to slip it off him herself, she wants to play a role in slowly stripping away any reminders of the festival, the way he had for her.
It's still gradual, her capacity for movement, but, gripping the sides of the tub, she can push herself up to kneeling out of the water more, rivulets running down her skin as she reaches out with damp fingers in wordless petition.
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He longs for the sensation her fingers and lips, as well as the freedom that comes with them.
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No doubt he'll feel the relief that accompanies not having it clasped around his neck anymore, but even so, she lets it slip from her fingers to hit the floor with a dull thud and then sways forward to press her nose against his neck, breathing in the lingering scents of sweat and leather before urging a soft kiss there.
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Sweeney feels the longing to serve her. Not as a submissive or a slave, but something born of raw affection; a desire to tend her as she tends him in a tandem act. It does seem funny, yet fitting, that his liberation should bring such a Want.
"Thank you," he whispers, the words sacred, even in the softness. It brings with it the image of him helping her out of the tub before drying her off, taking a knee as he does so and planting a soft kiss on the side of her ribs, near her breast but not on it.
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"I should be the one thanking you," she points out, and as his image plays across her mind, she moves to satisfy it, to give him her hand so that he can assist her in first stepping out of the tub and then beginning to dry her off with a clean cloth meant for that very purpose.
By the time he kneels before her, her hands are on him, fingers carding through his hair, nails lightly raking over his scalp; he presses that kiss to the side of her ribs and it's soft enough to elicit a trembling, her arms encircling his head as she draws him against the front of her body and merely holds him close, her heartbeat thudding calmly in his hearing.
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God, it feels so good. More than it has a right to, being as simple as it is. Just having her wrapped around him, her fingers in his hair and her skin on his face, is sublime. Sweeney takes several long breaths to savor the smell of her and the oil. His thoughts drift to lazier days where they might spend an afternoon indulging in bathing. How he would happily wash and braid her hair and--
He has to shift a little, but it doesn't help. Without pulling back, Sweeney lowers his hands to undo his trouser buttons, just to relieve the increasing pressure of his swelling flesh. Then they return to the small of her back, cradling her to him as he speckles her chest with soft kisses.
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She doesn't want to push him away from her, but she does set a hand on his shoulder, applying just enough pressure there that it should be clear what she intends — to slowly nudge him onto his back, right there on the floor beside the tub, before she lowers herself on top of him.
The ends of her hair are still wet, dripping onto him, and her gaze is soft despite the harsh bruises on her body. She and Khoriya hadn't fucked, as much as they'd made it look like they had, and her hand reaches in between the spread of her own legs so she can slide it down the front of Sweeney's trousers, seeking to wrap fingers around his cock.
"I want you inside me," she whispers, decisive enough that he doesn't need to ask her if she's sure. "Please."
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She keeps applying pressure, and eventually it occurs to Sweeney that she wants him to actually lay down. As rigid as he is, he wasn't actually mentally prepared to have sex. Which isn't to say that his body can't jump on that train as it's starting out of the station.
A moan is sacrificed in offering as she takes hold of him, and his eyes roll beneath their lids at the honed sensation. All he can do in the moment is nod, tight and eager, as his hands find her hips to urge her forward. Sweeney tries not to think about how filthy he is, still stained with blood and sweat, as she straddles him, freshly-clean. He's free of the collar, and that's enough.
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"You're staking your claim," she whispers, as his hands on his hips steady her, guide her, and she in turn rears up, slipping his cock out of his trousers and positioning herself above until she can feel his tip breaching her. While she might have needed his fingers first in any other instance, here she doesn't bother to wait for the accommodation, sinking down onto him, hissing softly at the pleasurable burn of the stretch that accompanies it.
"It doesn't matter what they saw on stage. What they believe they saw." Her hands reach for his, collecting them, drawing them upward so she can guide them to cup over her breasts, palm and squeeze her there before she begins to move on him, slowly undulating her hips. "Not when yours is the cock inside me now."
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Sweeney's all too willing to dote on her breasts; kneading, caressing, and plucking at her nipples. He savors the ride, but eventually, he can't help himself. Curling up tightly, his mouth takes to assisting, making sure she can enjoy more options of sensations. Well, that and he really enjoys sucking on them.
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Her fingers slide up into his hair, as he latches onto her breasts, cradling him there against her, urging him on with breathless moans and gasps. The more attention he pays, the more aroused she becomes, and the more frictionless her movements. For a while, there aren't any words between them, just noises — soft whimpers from her, audible suction where his lips are tugging at a nipple, the steadily building slickness as she rocks up and down his length. It may not be the best place to do this, not on the hardwood flooring, but she's too desperate for him to care, too desiring to wait a second longer.
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It's giving and taking, and it leaves him heady in shared want. The more eager her bounce, the rougher she's met in answer; he tries to pull her down on him, as if it would compensate for his lack of upward thrust; his hand at her hip or the nape of her neck as the other tugs one nipple, and his mouth set to the other. Too often, he's left to trap it between his teeth while he fights to suck in short breaths around it in between groans. His toes flex as she urges him on towards his climax.
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Sweeney catches one of her nipples between his teeth and she cries out — not in pain, but in overwhelm, the tension in her body beginning to reach a peak that she knows will shatter but trying to stave it off for as long as she can. She wants him there with her, when she comes, wants to feel him pulse and throb inside her while she clenches and squeezes tight around him. It makes her movements even more erratic in the interim, her breathing sharper and hitching, as their sounds of pleasure build to become a louder chorus.
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Fuck, how it feels to be inside her. For her to take him. Choose him. Claim him.
There's nothin he can do when he senses the inevitable, except grab both of her hips hard enough to threaten bruises and yank down, leaving her grinding on him as he loses himself inside her. The force catches her nipple more tightly between his teeth as he cries out around it, his body unwilling to sacrifice the contact, no matter how slight. Once he's able to start the slope down the other side, he sucks it back firmly between his lips, working it eagerly as he pulses deep in her.
no subject
In his lap, she's shuddering, quaking even with his hands clamped down on her hips, keeping her from being able to move too drastically; when his teeth on her nipple turn into a warm, hard suction, she whines, grinding herself on him, prolonging those intense waves of her climax until she finally sags in his arms, unable to even so much as think about moving.
(no subject)