Just as he accidentally distracts her with his words, she quite purposefully distracts him with her touch and this is deeply unfair, Gwenaëlle, when a man’s trying to have a serious conversation and your hand’s around his cock,
but she says that, and gives that smile, and somewhere in the ache of desire he also feels some other knot of tension unwind in his chest. It takes him another moment to muster his composure before saying, “Ah, good, because I strive for top marks,” with similar impish amusement.
Surveying her, it occurs to Stephen that if they were back in New York, he’d have so many more options: a gentle cushion of air levitating her back onto the bed; coils of nimble telekinesis undoing her buttons; invisible restraints holding her in place. For the first time, he finds himself vaguely annoyed at his altered, lessened magic for reasons beyond portalling everywhere or neater handwriting.
Still. They’ll make do.
So Stephen leans forward and steals another kiss, and then finally presses her backward, tipping them over into the bed properly, his body over hers (I like it firm, she’d said). Then it’s a somewhat undignified shared scramble across the mattress — he’s not going to kneel on the floor, who are you kidding, think of the poor man’s knees — but they eventually relocate Gwenaëlle to the head of the bed, sitting prettily in the rumpled sheets where he’d been sleeping earlier. Stephen takes a moment to admire the view, before he starts working on getting those form-fitting trousers off. There’s going to be more wriggling, more shimmying to peel these off and the stockings alike.
“Good god, you wear too many clothes,” he says, but the faux complaint is warm, in jest. Who doesn’t love unwrapping a present.
no subject
but she says that, and gives that smile, and somewhere in the ache of desire he also feels some other knot of tension unwind in his chest. It takes him another moment to muster his composure before saying, “Ah, good, because I strive for top marks,” with similar impish amusement.
Surveying her, it occurs to Stephen that if they were back in New York, he’d have so many more options: a gentle cushion of air levitating her back onto the bed; coils of nimble telekinesis undoing her buttons; invisible restraints holding her in place. For the first time, he finds himself vaguely annoyed at his altered, lessened magic for reasons beyond portalling everywhere or neater handwriting.
Still. They’ll make do.
So Stephen leans forward and steals another kiss, and then finally presses her backward, tipping them over into the bed properly, his body over hers (I like it firm, she’d said). Then it’s a somewhat undignified shared scramble across the mattress — he’s not going to kneel on the floor, who are you kidding, think of the poor man’s knees — but they eventually relocate Gwenaëlle to the head of the bed, sitting prettily in the rumpled sheets where he’d been sleeping earlier. Stephen takes a moment to admire the view, before he starts working on getting those form-fitting trousers off. There’s going to be more wriggling, more shimmying to peel these off and the stockings alike.
“Good god, you wear too many clothes,” he says, but the faux complaint is warm, in jest. Who doesn’t love unwrapping a present.