That smart mouth of Gwenaëlle’s is one of the things he loves best about her, the perpetual tart humour, the way she has purposefully moulded it to communicativeness, the way he can hear very loudly what does in fact work for her, whenever he rolls his hips and hits the right spot again. That keening noise that makes everything in him tighten. That sardonic compliment, and she can hear Stephen laugh behind her, fond,
“Good,” breathless, starting to lose the thread a little in those murmured words, “alright, Gwenaëlle, that’s good,”
and they finally figured out how to make it work, landing on the particular configuration of limbs and position that everything’s safely out of the way, and he’s not distracted by the ache in his hands and she’s thinking less of the wings. So in the end it’s just heat and pressure and friction and pleasure, driving himself into her again and again and her fingers sliding against herself and against his cock until they’re both starting to teeter on that peak.
How many times have they made each other fall apart like this, working each other over in bed like this, and even changed he’s never tired of her, ever —
no subject
“Good,” breathless, starting to lose the thread a little in those murmured words, “alright, Gwenaëlle, that’s good,”
and they finally figured out how to make it work, landing on the particular configuration of limbs and position that everything’s safely out of the way, and he’s not distracted by the ache in his hands and she’s thinking less of the wings. So in the end it’s just heat and pressure and friction and pleasure, driving himself into her again and again and her fingers sliding against herself and against his cock until they’re both starting to teeter on that peak.
How many times have they made each other fall apart like this, working each other over in bed like this, and even changed he’s never tired of her, ever —