[ he rises; her hands drop away. and in open defiance of her customary impatience, peggy takes a moment to behold him. to enjoy the sight, no matter how familiar, of him kneeling above. in the seconds after his shirt disappears (rendered irrelevant the moment it left his body) she slides a palm onto the flat of his stomach. her nails catch and pull at the trail of fine hair leading from navel to somewhere below his belt, but her touch continues in the opposite direction. with a rotation of her shoulder, with a bit of a stretch and with only her fingertips, she can just about reach the spot housing his heart.
it's bounding. or else she fancies it is -- leaping, like a jack rabbit, in his chest. peggy bites down on a grin as though some piece of her still won't suffer him seeing how much she enjoys his tells, or the shared effect they have on one another when the pleasantries crack away and their desires reign instead. such as the shake in his hands as he works at balancing out their states of undress, picking at buttons while she -- keen-eyed -- watches him fight a little battle between his instincts and his inclinations. her own is waged by the dark in her eyes and the lift in her hips. it's won and lost in the way she sighs when his touch, dipping between buttons, catches her skin.
it's been a week since he's come back to her and about ruddy time to acknowledge something beyond the tricky and poorly articulated emotions surrounding their reunion. this is a far far simpler language, and one they fall to speaking with familiar ease. he bends forward and she lets her hand slip back to his waist, fingers curving against his side with the kind of grip that allows her to urge him near. rock him forward. to take that spark of what's carnal and ignite it against a dash of encouragement as her body raises against his. her skirt is already in a state. creased, riding above her knees, hitched since the moment they'd tumbled into his bed together. and much like his shirt and her buttons, the rest of their clothing proves more burden than benefit. ]
-- Christ. [ she swears, sharply, and disavows any earlier desire to foster an even playing field between them. the slow torturous line of his kisses, sucked and marking, wreak havoc with her tolerance for laying back and letting him plot his own course. and so she lets her own want get the better of her, her own instinct win a skirmish or two, whens he grabs him by his waist and seeks, a touch roughly, to turn him onto his back. peggy hopes to supplant rip in his position and straddle him instead. ]
no subject
it's bounding. or else she fancies it is -- leaping, like a jack rabbit, in his chest. peggy bites down on a grin as though some piece of her still won't suffer him seeing how much she enjoys his tells, or the shared effect they have on one another when the pleasantries crack away and their desires reign instead. such as the shake in his hands as he works at balancing out their states of undress, picking at buttons while she -- keen-eyed -- watches him fight a little battle between his instincts and his inclinations. her own is waged by the dark in her eyes and the lift in her hips. it's won and lost in the way she sighs when his touch, dipping between buttons, catches her skin.
it's been a week since he's come back to her and about ruddy time to acknowledge something beyond the tricky and poorly articulated emotions surrounding their reunion. this is a far far simpler language, and one they fall to speaking with familiar ease. he bends forward and she lets her hand slip back to his waist, fingers curving against his side with the kind of grip that allows her to urge him near. rock him forward. to take that spark of what's carnal and ignite it against a dash of encouragement as her body raises against his. her skirt is already in a state. creased, riding above her knees, hitched since the moment they'd tumbled into his bed together. and much like his shirt and her buttons, the rest of their clothing proves more burden than benefit. ]
-- Christ. [ she swears, sharply, and disavows any earlier desire to foster an even playing field between them. the slow torturous line of his kisses, sucked and marking, wreak havoc with her tolerance for laying back and letting him plot his own course. and so she lets her own want get the better of her, her own instinct win a skirmish or two, whens he grabs him by his waist and seeks, a touch roughly, to turn him onto his back. peggy hopes to supplant rip in his position and straddle him instead. ]