Her shudder ripples down into him, continuing without apology and forcing him to suck a quick breath. She smells so fucking good. They have places to be soon enough, but in this moment, it's only the two of them, and that's all he wants it to be.
Sweeney turns his head enough to kiss her temple, an act of tenderness that proceeds a firm squeeze of her buttock and curl of his fingers. He uses the grip to rock her hips again without him thrusting up. The buoyancy of the water serves as a boon, allowing him to keep acute control of the way she slides down his length, only to slowly be pulled back up.
He lives for the details, the trembling of her lashes and her breath and knowing how much she wants it.
There are other pursuits to keep in mind — the real reason for their being here, the efforts she'll make to assert her perceived loyalty to their hostess — but in the moment, Yennefer isn't dwelling on any of them. In the past, she might have been more motivated to seize control herself, to dictate the progress of her own pleasure, but here she allows him to move her, relies on his strength in the establishment of that slow, gentle rhythm.
Their faces are nudged close together, so he won't see it until she pulls back — the naked longing on her face, clear and unrepressed, the desire that floods her expression even though they're both well on their way to sating it. He moves her, guides her, and she permits it, her encouragement repeated across the mental tether they share, again and again — yes, yes, yes.
As heavy as her want has been before, this is a wholly new degree of it, one that's entirely conjured from deeper feeling and implicit trust, as she lets him into places that she's rarely allowed anyone else to touch.
Sweet fuck, that look on her face. It'd find his hand wrapped around his cock if she wasn't already, but he's grateful that it's not required. His pleasure is entwined with hers, and the more he gives, the more he has. The more he wants.
The more he aims for focus, the harder it is for him to find it, and it's not long before his grip loosens. The heel of his palm still presses in time against the small of her back, but the fingers inside her start a slow stroke instead. The pattern is smooth, but full, and it's hard for him not to superimpose what it would be like to have his prick in their place.
The sensation is only compounded by the tight warmth it's already in, and his eyes roll beneath their lids as he's lost in the murkiness of that moment. It doesn't matter where he finds himself in her, he's still in her, and that's increasingly the only thing he really needs. The closeness of it. The intimacy, even in something that's a far cry from sweetness.
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no subject
Sweeney turns his head enough to kiss her temple, an act of tenderness that proceeds a firm squeeze of her buttock and curl of his fingers. He uses the grip to rock her hips again without him thrusting up. The buoyancy of the water serves as a boon, allowing him to keep acute control of the way she slides down his length, only to slowly be pulled back up.
He lives for the details, the trembling of her lashes and her breath and knowing how much she wants it.
no subject
Their faces are nudged close together, so he won't see it until she pulls back — the naked longing on her face, clear and unrepressed, the desire that floods her expression even though they're both well on their way to sating it. He moves her, guides her, and she permits it, her encouragement repeated across the mental tether they share, again and again — yes, yes, yes.
As heavy as her want has been before, this is a wholly new degree of it, one that's entirely conjured from deeper feeling and implicit trust, as she lets him into places that she's rarely allowed anyone else to touch.
no subject
The more he aims for focus, the harder it is for him to find it, and it's not long before his grip loosens. The heel of his palm still presses in time against the small of her back, but the fingers inside her start a slow stroke instead. The pattern is smooth, but full, and it's hard for him not to superimpose what it would be like to have his prick in their place.
The sensation is only compounded by the tight warmth it's already in, and his eyes roll beneath their lids as he's lost in the murkiness of that moment. It doesn't matter where he finds himself in her, he's still in her, and that's increasingly the only thing he really needs. The closeness of it. The intimacy, even in something that's a far cry from sweetness.