Those words against his ear might be one of the hottest things he’s ever heard, and they’re a drumbeat down his spine, rendering his own breathing already unsteady. The inherent question in the command unfurls too many options, too many delicious possibilities, because what does he want? It’s been so long since his thoughts started to drift towards Gwenaëlle in this specific light. It’s been even longer since he’s done this with anyone.
— which, then, with the chill of context settling into place, makes him suddenly realise that this will be his first time since the accident. (The Accident. Capital letter, a stark dividing line between life before and after.) Will those hands still be able to do everything they need to do? There are other scars across his body, from the car crash and sorcerer battles alike, but he doesn’t care much about the sight of those,
it’s more the practicality of it all, the physical capability.
But before Stephen can catastrophise or get too in his head about it (prone to overthinking, this man, and always a victory when someone can distract him), he’s abruptly drawn back by another searching stroke of her hand, his shallow gasp, his fingertips stilled somewhere on her hip. He hadn’t realised how desperately lonely and touch-starved he was until she was touching him.
What do you want, Stephen? In the end, with the same blunt and matter-of-fact (if a little ragged) tone he might use for solving any problem:
“I want,” he says, consideringly, “to eat you out.”
And just in case the modern terminology isn’t the same here — he’s watched Game of Thrones, is it some godawful euphemism like the lord’s kiss — he adds, matter-of-fact, “You further up in the bed, and my mouth between your legs.”
no subject
— which, then, with the chill of context settling into place, makes him suddenly realise that this will be his first time since the accident. (The Accident. Capital letter, a stark dividing line between life before and after.) Will those hands still be able to do everything they need to do? There are other scars across his body, from the car crash and sorcerer battles alike, but he doesn’t care much about the sight of those,
it’s more the practicality of it all, the physical capability.
But before Stephen can catastrophise or get too in his head about it (prone to overthinking, this man, and always a victory when someone can distract him), he’s abruptly drawn back by another searching stroke of her hand, his shallow gasp, his fingertips stilled somewhere on her hip. He hadn’t realised how desperately lonely and touch-starved he was until she was touching him.
What do you want, Stephen? In the end, with the same blunt and matter-of-fact (if a little ragged) tone he might use for solving any problem:
“I want,” he says, consideringly, “to eat you out.”
And just in case the modern terminology isn’t the same here — he’s watched Game of Thrones, is it some godawful euphemism like the lord’s kiss — he adds, matter-of-fact, “You further up in the bed, and my mouth between your legs.”