He’s surprised but not as thunderously bowled-over as before; there isn’t that awkward, painful clack of teeth against teeth; instead, it’s just Gwenaëlle rising up to meet him, folding into him like the tide dragging her in, and when she bites at his lip, he gives a sharp hiss of indrawn breath.
She’s kissed him for the second time in their lives, and what happens next is this: Stephen leaning into it immediately, with none of the wheels-turning hesitation from the Crossroads, and he bites back, teeth grazing against lip and his hand automatically winding into the tangled curly mess of Gwenaëlle’s hair.
Before, it had been a single lengthy kiss to banish a haunting; this time it’s chasing after each other, mouth and tongue and stupid decisions, Stephen having to pause to catch his breath and then simply diving back in for more. Hungry. A hunger he hasn’t felt for— years, too many years, this side of him carefully set on a shelf and then bricked up behind a wall, only for Gwenaëlle to come crashing miraculously through it.
Her face is bitterly cold from the outdoors, but his hands are warm; they both taste of honeywine; it turns out last month wasn’t about work and this isn’t, either.
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He’s surprised but not as thunderously bowled-over as before; there isn’t that awkward, painful clack of teeth against teeth; instead, it’s just Gwenaëlle rising up to meet him, folding into him like the tide dragging her in, and when she bites at his lip, he gives a sharp hiss of indrawn breath.
She’s kissed him for the second time in their lives, and what happens next is this: Stephen leaning into it immediately, with none of the wheels-turning hesitation from the Crossroads, and he bites back, teeth grazing against lip and his hand automatically winding into the tangled curly mess of Gwenaëlle’s hair.
Before, it had been a single lengthy kiss to banish a haunting; this time it’s chasing after each other, mouth and tongue and stupid decisions, Stephen having to pause to catch his breath and then simply diving back in for more. Hungry. A hunger he hasn’t felt for— years, too many years, this side of him carefully set on a shelf and then bricked up behind a wall, only for Gwenaëlle to come crashing miraculously through it.
Her face is bitterly cold from the outdoors, but his hands are warm; they both taste of honeywine; it turns out last month wasn’t about work and this isn’t, either.