Gwenaëlle might not need the reassurance anymore that she is desirable, desired, wanted, but it’s there nonetheless as her knee forays higher: the hard edge of his cock more than apparent in the fairly thin equivalent of pyjama pants, Stephen already hopelessly turned on, giving a predictable small strangled noise as she nudges up against him.
Crossing this line feels oddly simpler here in Halamshiral, in an anonymous room — the safety of a guest room in an expansive wing on a stranger’s sprawling estate, not neighbours cooped atop of each other in the Gallows and risking gossip at any stray sound. Here the rooms are larger, further apart; there’s more privacy to indulge. Perhaps in a way this is Riftwatch’s equivalent of a trip to an out-of-state work conference, getting more audacious after a few drinks at the hotel bar, following each other back to their rooms.
It’s a collaborative effort to work through the rest of her skirts (although that wriggling is a problem): he purposefully steps on that puddle of petticoats, and it helps Gwenaëlle kick off the last of them, leaving her in trousers and stockings.
He’s getting bolder, now that it’s unceasingly clear that kiss in the Crossroads wasn’t a one-off anomaly, a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity: now, there’s the luxury to explore. To slowly start to find out what she likes, what noise she might make when he mouths at her neck, teeth grazing her pulse point; when he reaches beneath her chemise just for the sake of reaching warm bare skin, the map of her scars beneath his own scarred fingertips.
slaps on a nsfw warning here on out
Crossing this line feels oddly simpler here in Halamshiral, in an anonymous room — the safety of a guest room in an expansive wing on a stranger’s sprawling estate, not neighbours cooped atop of each other in the Gallows and risking gossip at any stray sound. Here the rooms are larger, further apart; there’s more privacy to indulge. Perhaps in a way this is Riftwatch’s equivalent of a trip to an out-of-state work conference, getting more audacious after a few drinks at the hotel bar, following each other back to their rooms.
It’s a collaborative effort to work through the rest of her skirts (although that wriggling is a problem): he purposefully steps on that puddle of petticoats, and it helps Gwenaëlle kick off the last of them, leaving her in trousers and stockings.
He’s getting bolder, now that it’s unceasingly clear that kiss in the Crossroads wasn’t a one-off anomaly, a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity: now, there’s the luxury to explore. To slowly start to find out what she likes, what noise she might make when he mouths at her neck, teeth grazing her pulse point; when he reaches beneath her chemise just for the sake of reaching warm bare skin, the map of her scars beneath his own scarred fingertips.