The firelight dances on his skin, casting it in shifting gold, and with every movement of light and shadow, something new seems to present itself: the rill and cleft of old scars, the contour of muscle and sinew, the fair hair and faded tattoos. It seems a very long moment that she simply looks at him, drinking in the shape of something that feels altogether new.
It can only be a few seconds, because he does not hesitate in reaching for his trouser-fastenings, and it is at that point that the spell lifts a little - that she regains just enough presence of mind to move off his lap and sit back on her heels, and not much more. Her mouth is dry with an anticipation that thrills just on the edge of fear. Here, again, is that sense of a cliff-edge: a moment which, once passed, can never be returned from. Here, again, is the certainty that she has already leapt.
Her tongue darts out, wetting parted lips. It comes to her, with the clarity of a dream, that there is an order to this: that it is in some way wrong that he should be naked and she still clothed. Her eyes do not leave him, even for a moment, as she loosens her own shirt; she looks away only for the split second it takes to pull the tunic over her head and send it after his. Look at me, she wills him, and yet does not know whether he does, because her own eyes are not at that moment lingering as high as his face. Look at me as I look at you.
The fire, behind her, is almost uncomfortably hot against bare skin. All the same, her nipples are pulled taut and hard, as if it were cold; her skin prickles with gooseflesh, a pink flush rising at the hollow of her throat. She is conscious of how her skin lacks the stories his tells: how it is white as unused parchment, without the rough terrain of a life lived meaningfully.
She pushes back her hair, to more fully bare herself to him, and watches him with that same hungry, intent look, as though she could consume all of him and know something deeper by it. After a moment, she moves towards him again, crawling like a beast on all fours now, one hand outstretched to trace her fingertips along the arch of his collarbone and down the valley of his sternum; and at last her eyes move upwards to his face again, her gaze finding his.
"One day," she murmurs, "I should like to hear the story of these marks."
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sforzinda
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Date: 2025-11-06 02:50 am (UTC)It can only be a few seconds, because he does not hesitate in reaching for his trouser-fastenings, and it is at that point that the spell lifts a little - that she regains just enough presence of mind to move off his lap and sit back on her heels, and not much more. Her mouth is dry with an anticipation that thrills just on the edge of fear. Here, again, is that sense of a cliff-edge: a moment which, once passed, can never be returned from. Here, again, is the certainty that she has already leapt.
Her tongue darts out, wetting parted lips. It comes to her, with the clarity of a dream, that there is an order to this: that it is in some way wrong that he should be naked and she still clothed. Her eyes do not leave him, even for a moment, as she loosens her own shirt; she looks away only for the split second it takes to pull the tunic over her head and send it after his. Look at me, she wills him, and yet does not know whether he does, because her own eyes are not at that moment lingering as high as his face. Look at me as I look at you.
The fire, behind her, is almost uncomfortably hot against bare skin. All the same, her nipples are pulled taut and hard, as if it were cold; her skin prickles with gooseflesh, a pink flush rising at the hollow of her throat. She is conscious of how her skin lacks the stories his tells: how it is white as unused parchment, without the rough terrain of a life lived meaningfully.
She pushes back her hair, to more fully bare herself to him, and watches him with that same hungry, intent look, as though she could consume all of him and know something deeper by it. After a moment, she moves towards him again, crawling like a beast on all fours now, one hand outstretched to trace her fingertips along the arch of his collarbone and down the valley of his sternum; and at last her eyes move upwards to his face again, her gaze finding his.
"One day," she murmurs, "I should like to hear the story of these marks."