As impulsive as this is (that spirit on Impulse Avenue had had the truth of it, had looked right into their souls and already seen this coming), it’s also intentional. There had been so many moments, so many opportunities even tonight to swerve off the path: choose someone else’s window. Let her in and then bundle her off to the hallway. Not invite her for a nightcap. Not walk off this cliff together.
But the decision is obvious enough by the way he watches the way she works, the appreciative glint in his eye as Gwenaëlle peels herself out of the corset with the ease of long practice, unbuckling her armour. And he says, almost musingly, “You are a little terrifying, you know,”
and it’s not god, you’re beautiful but it means the same thing. Means something more, maybe. He has always been drawn to the people who could burn him.
When Gwenaëlle leans back, Stephen finally takes the opportunity to fix the ridiculous situation with that boot. Kneeling before her — there’s another frisson of sharp unavoidable desire at being in this position, looking up at her from this angle — he hauls on the second boot to drag it off, slower this time, the context immediately different from just a few minutes ago. He sets it aside to join its fellow. Intentional.
“How many knives?” he asks, firstly because he doesn’t want to collide with them later, secondly because he’s wondered, thirdly because his hands are now sliding beneath Gwenaëlle’s skirts, up the length of her legs, knees, thighs, to find and unhook those garters.
no subject
But the decision is obvious enough by the way he watches the way she works, the appreciative glint in his eye as Gwenaëlle peels herself out of the corset with the ease of long practice, unbuckling her armour. And he says, almost musingly, “You are a little terrifying, you know,”
and it’s not god, you’re beautiful but it means the same thing. Means something more, maybe. He has always been drawn to the people who could burn him.
When Gwenaëlle leans back, Stephen finally takes the opportunity to fix the ridiculous situation with that boot. Kneeling before her — there’s another frisson of sharp unavoidable desire at being in this position, looking up at her from this angle — he hauls on the second boot to drag it off, slower this time, the context immediately different from just a few minutes ago. He sets it aside to join its fellow. Intentional.
“How many knives?” he asks, firstly because he doesn’t want to collide with them later, secondly because he’s wondered, thirdly because his hands are now sliding beneath Gwenaëlle’s skirts, up the length of her legs, knees, thighs, to find and unhook those garters.
Maybe he’s thought about it before.