This likely isn’t new territory for these guest quarters: the charm of enjoying lavish surroundings, marinating in unexpected luxury, well-appointed rooms and solid furniture, Gwenaëlle’s occasional cry swallowed up by draperies, windows, walls, furniture, rugs. And even then, presumably not all the neighbours can remember who, exactly, is staying in which room; all of Riftwatch have been out and about so often.
So with impunity and a lack of self-consciousness, his long clever fingers continue to pump in and out at a steady pace alongside the curl of his tongue, wringing that pleasure out of her,
(testing his own limits)
until, predictably, the dull nerve pain starts to sink in and Stephen feels it slowly approaching like an old nemesis. The increasing stiffness in his wrist, joints sloppily held together with metal, never healed quite right. He’s still able to touch her — still able to bring pleasure with these ugly broken hands, then, thank god, which is more than he knew before — but not able to fuck her for as long as he’d have liked, and as he once would have been able to do. He played the piano, he really was very good with his hands and once proud of it.
It’s okay, he tries to tell himself. He knew this. There are alternatives.
So right after Stephen’s brought her to the brink and teetering right on the edge is exactly when when he has to reluctantly slow down. He withdraws his hand, surfacing for air to catch his shallow breath; once Gwenaëlle peers down at the interruption, he slowly licks his fingers clean and then looks up at her from between her legs, contemplative. it used to be a point of pride to be able to have a woman come on his mouth and fingers alone, but.
“I think we’re gonna have to change tack,” he says. Rationally, he knows that there are too many things he wants to try with her and learn about her, an absolute world’s worth— but there’s still that faint touch of self-deprecation to his tone, self-aware.
no subject
So with impunity and a lack of self-consciousness, his long clever fingers continue to pump in and out at a steady pace alongside the curl of his tongue, wringing that pleasure out of her,
(testing his own limits)
until, predictably, the dull nerve pain starts to sink in and Stephen feels it slowly approaching like an old nemesis. The increasing stiffness in his wrist, joints sloppily held together with metal, never healed quite right. He’s still able to touch her — still able to bring pleasure with these ugly broken hands, then, thank god, which is more than he knew before — but not able to fuck her for as long as he’d have liked, and as he once would have been able to do. He played the piano, he really was very good with his hands and once proud of it.
It’s okay, he tries to tell himself. He knew this. There are alternatives.
So right after Stephen’s brought her to the brink and teetering right on the edge is exactly when when he has to reluctantly slow down. He withdraws his hand, surfacing for air to catch his shallow breath; once Gwenaëlle peers down at the interruption, he slowly licks his fingers clean and then looks up at her from between her legs, contemplative. it used to be a point of pride to be able to have a woman come on his mouth and fingers alone, but.
“I think we’re gonna have to change tack,” he says. Rationally, he knows that there are too many things he wants to try with her and learn about her, an absolute world’s worth— but there’s still that faint touch of self-deprecation to his tone, self-aware.