[From one pole to another, and what Rip does as precaution now seems to not warrant thanks, but impatience on Peggy's part. She crashes into him scarcely a second before he reaches her, and if this all weren't such a tenuous thing he might have chuckled against her lips, teased her between kisses and gasps about that inability to wait even a measure of heartbeats.
But he knows better. Head swimming from alcohol and the late hour and the heat of her mouth once more against his, Rip still knows that there is nothing promised in the moment after this one, or the next. So he doesn't waste his time with comfortable barbs of their normal Wednesday tete-a-tete; it's long past Wednesday, and the morning would no doubt see them less compromised.
So he lets abandon guide him, seeks out the taste of her under rum and whiskey, and the lingering traces of her lipstick. Once her hands shift so do his, each finding a place at her waist and drawing her closer, until there's little more than a whisper left between them. Words are left forgotten, unspoken, even in the moments when one or both of them must break away, forgo the pleasure of their indulgence to answer the greedy demands of lungs starved of air. But on those breaths he can still catch her scent, perfume and alcohol and this isn't Wednesday, but already it all feels familiar.
They've been there minutes, longer, before he finally does speak. His eyes still closed, his forehead resting against hers.] We should move. [A necessary note of caution, because the longer they stand there the more the room seems to spin, and while Rip is quite content to lose himself in her for however long this night allows, he'd rather not sway too far in one way or another, and find himself tumbling down in ridiculous fashion.
The problem is, caution isn't so much a thing being indulged tonight. Even after he advises, Rip is quick to press his mouth to the corner of hers and lower, to tilt his head so he can trace out a path along the line of her jaw.]
no subject
But he knows better. Head swimming from alcohol and the late hour and the heat of her mouth once more against his, Rip still knows that there is nothing promised in the moment after this one, or the next. So he doesn't waste his time with comfortable barbs of their normal Wednesday tete-a-tete; it's long past Wednesday, and the morning would no doubt see them less compromised.
So he lets abandon guide him, seeks out the taste of her under rum and whiskey, and the lingering traces of her lipstick. Once her hands shift so do his, each finding a place at her waist and drawing her closer, until there's little more than a whisper left between them. Words are left forgotten, unspoken, even in the moments when one or both of them must break away, forgo the pleasure of their indulgence to answer the greedy demands of lungs starved of air. But on those breaths he can still catch her scent, perfume and alcohol and this isn't Wednesday, but already it all feels familiar.
They've been there minutes, longer, before he finally does speak. His eyes still closed, his forehead resting against hers.] We should move. [A necessary note of caution, because the longer they stand there the more the room seems to spin, and while Rip is quite content to lose himself in her for however long this night allows, he'd rather not sway too far in one way or another, and find himself tumbling down in ridiculous fashion.
The problem is, caution isn't so much a thing being indulged tonight. Even after he advises, Rip is quick to press his mouth to the corner of hers and lower, to tilt his head so he can trace out a path along the line of her jaw.]