[ his lips on her jaw leaves her mouth free for laughter. and as laughter goes, it's brief and low and textured. it's more like a hat tip to dark humour settling about their shoulders than it is to any genuine mirth. because, proper or not, she feels him beneath her -- stiff and dauntless. their weekly scotch hasn't sabotaged him tonight.
(then again -- it wasn't the scotch last week, was it?)
she'd love to pin him with some witty comeback, some seductive assurance that there's nothing 'unfortunate' about his intentions (or lack thereof), but her own wit is just a little too far out of reach. she can't grab it.
and she'd much rather grab at him, besides.
so they dally a little while, here, in another bit of prologue. peggy certainly doesn't mind the detour, and she's half-hoping he does. her next breath out is like a roll of gravel in the back of her throat, and once again she betrays herself as anything but a delicate creature. she might be, by a certain definition, out of practice -- but coming near undone against rip's bedroom wall with his head craning between her thighs did damned wonders for the easy, natural confidence she so often wear so well.
she noses a line across the angled plane of his cheek, dipping her mouth against the curl of his ear -- catching her breath and pressing her body onto his. it's all heat and limbs and the pleasant constant reminder that he waits for her, readied and at attention.
one piece of last week repeats itself when peggy pushes a hand between their bodies. this time, she probes for nothing but instead grips him through his trousers with clear and present intention of her own. stalled only by a thought, whispered warm against his ear: ]
The holster -- [ a beat, a sigh, god it's a chore just to speak when he's having his way with the exposed skin of her neck ] -- there's a French letter tucked next to the spare magazine.
[ the holster she'd left on the ground. it, much like her wit, feels altogether too far out of reach. far enough to make her regret mentioning that she'd come well-prepared to his door tonight. ]
no subject
(then again -- it wasn't the scotch last week, was it?)
she'd love to pin him with some witty comeback, some seductive assurance that there's nothing 'unfortunate' about his intentions (or lack thereof), but her own wit is just a little too far out of reach. she can't grab it.
and she'd much rather grab at him, besides.
so they dally a little while, here, in another bit of prologue. peggy certainly doesn't mind the detour, and she's half-hoping he does. her next breath out is like a roll of gravel in the back of her throat, and once again she betrays herself as anything but a delicate creature. she might be, by a certain definition, out of practice -- but coming near undone against rip's bedroom wall with his head craning between her thighs did damned wonders for the easy, natural confidence she so often wear so well.
she noses a line across the angled plane of his cheek, dipping her mouth against the curl of his ear -- catching her breath and pressing her body onto his. it's all heat and limbs and the pleasant constant reminder that he waits for her, readied and at attention.
one piece of last week repeats itself when peggy pushes a hand between their bodies. this time, she probes for nothing but instead grips him through his trousers with clear and present intention of her own. stalled only by a thought, whispered warm against his ear: ]
The holster -- [ a beat, a sigh, god it's a chore just to speak when he's having his way with the exposed skin of her neck ] -- there's a French letter tucked next to the spare magazine.
[ the holster she'd left on the ground. it, much like her wit, feels altogether too far out of reach. far enough to make her regret mentioning that she'd come well-prepared to his door tonight. ]